


Dislocation

by 60r3d0m



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel in the Bunker, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sam is a Saint, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/60r3d0m/pseuds/60r3d0m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the sun is restored and the Woman of Letters banishes Castiel, he falls and becomes human, lost and alone in a place far from home. Four hundred and fifty-one days later, Sam finds him.</p>
<p>He tells Castiel that Dean is alive.</p>
<p>So they go. They go and they arrive at the bunker and Sam’s acting strange and there’s something that he’s not telling Castiel, something about Dean.</p>
<p>And then Castiel finally reunites with Dean.</p>
<p>And there is something about Dean.</p>
<p>Something about Dean that has Dean pulling Castiel into tight embraces, something about Dean that has Dean running his thumb across Castiel’s cheek with a tender look in his eyes, and something about Dean that has Dean shaking when Castiel says certain things to him, things that are normal, things that should not affect him this way.</p>
<p>There is something about Dean that no one is telling him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel’s sitting on a bench at a bus stop in Washington and his grief is as fresh as the first day.

He’s used to sitting here, since falling, used to feeling the dull ache that accompanies every visit, every time that he has to think of him. He’s used to this place, because the day that Dean had died, one moment, he had been descending the stairs of the bunker, offering his comfort to Sam, and in the next, the Woman of Letters had pressed her hand to the banishing sigil and had sent him here, stripped of his grace and left utterly human.

He had not known what spell she had used.

He had only known that that day, Dean Winchester had died.

Now four hundred days later, Castiel is still human.

And Dean is still dead.

 

 

 

 

Sam walks into his workplace fifty-one days later, and when Castiel sees him, it seems that he can’t hold himself up. He falls from the ladder from where he has been stocking gardening supplies and he’s white-faced, bleeding from a scrape on his hand and, “You’re alive,” he says.

They’re staring at each other in the greenhouse, Castiel’s mouth moving but he can’t get another word out and it doesn’t matter because Sam smiles sadly and there’s something in his face that tenses, something that makes him look drained.

“I’m alive,” Sam says and for a moment, he pauses, pauses just long enough that Castiel’s heart starts to hammer in his chest and what he says next makes Castiel let out a small, pained sound.

“And so is Dean.”

 

 

 

 

Sam takes him to a nearby motel after Castiel’s shift at the nursery is over. He tells Castiel that the Woman of Letters has become an ally and that she told him that the spell that she had used on Castiel had caused him to lose his grace. He tells Castiel that he has spent the last three hundred days trying to track him down.

Did you know, Castiel wants to say, that I have had no means of finding you since falling?

Did you know, Castiel wants to say, that I have spent the last eternity thinking that surely you must be dead, that I failed fulfilling Dean’s last request to care for your well-being?

But Castiel does not say these things.

He does not even mention that he is not sure how he has managed to find the will to live on for so long.

He does not mention that he thought that he would die this Thursday at his own hand.

Instead, he says, “Where is Dean?”

 

 

 

 

They’re in the Impala, Sam and he. The trip will be agonizing because it’s going to take thirty-two hours and that’s how long he has to wait to see him—to see Dean.

He offers to drive through the night while Sam sleeps.

“It’s still going to take a day, Cas,” Sam says and then Sam’s mumbling, mumbling words that Castiel barely catches—except that he does catch them and they’re not good words—they’re whispers of _you shouldn’t be so eager to see him, Cas_.

“Is he—is he not well, Sam?”

Sam squares his jaw, rakes his fingers through his hair and gives him a tight, tight smile, the sort of smile that Castiel knows that Sam makes when he wants to be reassuring, even when the world is on fire.

“Cas, Dean is—”

Sam stops. Sam bites his lip and moves his mouth until he sighs with frustration.

And then Sam is too quiet.

And then Sam takes too long to answer.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel says.

 

 

 

 

They’re at the bunker.

They’re parked in the garage but Sam’s not getting out and when Castiel goes to open the door, Sam says, “Wait.”

They sit in silence for a long time.

“What is it?” Castiel says and Sam’s hesitating again, pursing his lips and finally, Sam says, “Dean’s not the same anymore.”

(Dean’s different).

“What’s wrong?” Castiel says.

But Sam still doesn’t tell him.

 

 

 

 

The bunker is deathly silent.

“Where is he?” Castiel says.

(In his room).

“I need to check something,” Sam says and he goes to Dean’s room but he leaves Castiel standing at the other end of the hallway because Castiel is not allowed to be near Dean and, “It’s just for a moment, Cas.”

When Sam disappears into Dean’s room, Castiel breaks the rules and follows, anyway.

He can’t wait another moment.

 

 

 

 

He hears Dean’s voice and it winds him.

He hears Dean’s voice, rough, alert, hoarse like he’s sick or like he’s been crying for a long time, but his voice is also so rusty, as if it hasn’t been used until today.

But maybe it just seems that way because Castiel has not seen him for four hundred and fifty-three days.

Maybe Castiel’s forgotten what he sounds like.

“—prize because I haven’t slit my wrists,” Dean’s saying and then Sam says, “Keep it down. He’s at the end of the hall.”

(But Castiel is eavesdropping by the door).

“Why’d you bring him?” Dean’s saying and he sounds furious and Castiel must not be hearing things right because he knows that Dean would never say things like that.

Sam’s voice is strained when he answers, maybe a little bit disapproving, but mostly it sounds as if he is trying to coax thoughts out of Dean, persuade him to think otherwise.

“I told you, Dean. He fell. He was homeless. Alone. He thought that we were both…gone. We’re his only family.”

“Am I dead to you?” Dean says.

Sam falters then, and there is an oppressive silence that chases Dean’s words. But then Sam’s voice goes soft and he says, “He was missing you, Dean.”

Castiel hears Dean choke on air.

“I miss him more,” Dean says.

 

 

 

 

For a long time, there’s nothing, just small sounds—sniffling, as if Dean’s sick and has a runny nose (so Castiel starts to worry already)—but Sam says, “You have to see him,” and then there is shuffling and rustling so Castiel hurries to the end of the hall where he is supposed to be.

It takes five more minutes for Sam to emerge from the room.

“He was asleep,” Sam says and he’s smiling, his tight, tight smile, and, “He’s just pulling on some pants—god, Cas, he’s missed you, man—he really has,” and Castiel doesn’t know why Sam keeps lying and why Sam has to lie at all because this is not Dean. This is not Dean.

But then Dean’s bedroom door creaks open.

And then Dean looks his way.

Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

_When Castiel had awoken at the foot of the bus stop bench after the banishing spell had sent him to Washington, he had not immediately realized that he had no longer been an angel._

_But he had not tried to act like an angel either._

_His fingers had fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket, and he had opened up his contacts list, had pressed Dean’s name and had been about to dial before he had remembered—Dean was dead._

_That’s when he had realized the change that had occurred to his being._

_Because after seeing Dean’s name blazing on his cell phone screen, he had been unable to breathe, had started to shake violently, and he had dropped his phone to clutch at the pavement, had started to sob._

_Had cried for the first time in all of his existence_.

 

 

 

 

Now he’s shaking again.

But not because Dean is dead.

It is because it has been four hundred and fifty-three days and now Dean is standing at the other end of the hall.

 

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t approach him.

Dean stands beside his bedroom door and stares, watches Castiel tremble in his wake, and Dean’s lips twitch, not in a smile but a hard expression as if he’s barely keeping himself together, and it’s been too long, Castiel thinks. It’s been too long.

He’s thinner. He’s scrawny in his _dead guy_ robe, and there are dark shadows under his eyes, eyes that are sunken in and look like the eyes of the many drug users that Castiel had had to bunk with at the homeless shelter—but Castiel tries not to think of what he has gone through in the last four hundred and fifty-three days. He has had enough time to think of it and more than a heartache’s worth of it to grieve for Dean.

This thought makes Castiel’s heart beat faster—Dean is _alive_.

So Castiel takes a step forward. And another. Begins to make his way to Dean.

But then Dean’s lips start to quiver, and Dean’s hands ball into fists at his sides and Dean just says nothing, just watches Castiel approach, just watches as the distance between them grows shorter and their eyes are locked on one another and Castiel’s still shaking and Dean—Dean is watching him fall apart.

Castiel says his name.

_Dean_.

Castiel says, “Dean,” and Dean closes his eyes, squeezes them shut so tight, and he looks pained and he looks miserable and then it’s so sudden.

Dean darts back into his room and the bedroom door slams violently shut behind him.

Castiel’s throat tightens.

 

 

 

 

_It’s not you_ , Sam says. _It’s him_.

“What happened?” Castiel asks, anxious, but Sam says, “It’s not my place to tell.”

How long has he been alive?

“He never died,” Sam says.

Oh.

 

 

 

 

“I’ll get him to come to dinner,” Sam says. They’re both sitting in the kitchen. Sam is cooking them burgers.

It feels wrong.

“Dinner is now, Sam.”

“In a minute,” Sam says.

 

 

 

 

Dinner.

And Dean doesn’t come.

“He said he ate already,” Sam says.

Castiel thinks of Dean’s frail form.

“And you believe him?”

“No,” Sam says and he smiles like he did when he first saw Castiel two days ago.

He smiles sadly.

 

 

 

 

Castiel is afraid to voice his thoughts to Sam, but if he does not, then it will be Sam’s shame—it will be embarrassing for Sam to have to ask Castiel to leave the bunker—because it is clear that Castiel cannot stay here if he is unwanted.

Unwanted by Dean.

_Why’d you bring him_? Dean had said.

So after Castiel finishes his dinner—and it’s mouth-watering, heavenly even, compared to the packets of instant noodles that Castiel has been consuming for the last few months because it is too humiliating to keep going to the soup kitchen—Castiel broaches the subject with Sam.

“If it is alright, Sam, may I stay the night and then go tomorrow morning? I can leave early before Dean has to see me.”

“What?” Sam says.

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. More so, Castiel wishes that he had not quit his job at the nursery because he only has enough money saved for another three weeks at a motel and then it will be back to the shelter.

But it won’t be the same one, Castiel realizes. It will have to be somewhere here in Kansas, somewhere far enough that running into Dean will be a rare coincidence, because Castiel does not have the means to return to Washington.

“Cas,” Sam says, and his tone is sharp. “What are you saying?”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “I can’t stay the night…I’ll leave now.”

This time Sam does not even smile.

He just looks sad.

 

 

 

 

Castiel cannot leave the bunker. Sam says that it is his home.

When Sam leaves Castiel alone in his own room, Castiel sinks to the floor and weeps.

 

 

 

 

It’s the middle of the night when the knock comes.

It terrifies Castiel—maybe Sam has changed his mind. Maybe Sam is going to make him go.

But when Castiel opens the door, it’s Dean that’s standing there.

It’s Dean and he’s clenching his jaw and he’s still in his _dead guy_ robe and he’s breathing harshly, through his nose, and he’s staring at Castiel with desperate, desperate eyes.

Castiel tries to say something.

But then Dean is hurtling towards him, and he's got his arms around Castiel and Castiel loses his balance, clutches right back at Dean because Dean is holding him with the same neediness that seems so apparent in his eyes, and they spin and then Castiel's back hits the wall and then Dean is pinning him there, pinning him and clinging to him like he will never let go.

Dean keeps breathing, open-mouthed now, hard against Castiel's cheek.

Castiel parts his lips, tries to utter words.

But neither of them seem able to speak.

Neither of them seem able to move.

It's just quiet. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Twenty minutes after he had been banished from the bunker, it had been the bus that had come that had finally prompted Castiel to stumble to his feet and into a walk._

_Where he had been going, he had not known._

_But he had tried to call Sam._

_And Sam had not answered._

_Maybe Sam had been dead, too._

_The people in his path had scurried to cross the street to avoid him._

_To them, he had not been a fallen angel whose family had sacrificed themselves to save the universe. To them, he had been a grimy man with tear stains and a tattered trench coat, walking down the street as if he were about to die at any moment._

_His stomach had growled with hunger on the first night._

_Like the first time he had fallen, he had hated the sensation._

_And then the night had become colder and his eyes had become heavy, his body weary from mourning._

_He had curled up on a park bench, had wrapped his arms around himself—not to ward off the icy weather but to stave off the aching loneliness that had started to claw at him from the inside._

_He had called Sam again._

_Sam had not answered._

_Sam’s phone had been pulled from service, just like Castiel had been pulled from the service of the Winchesters._

 

 

 

 

Now, in _whispers_ , Castiel thinks.

Softly.

Gently.

Talk to him in this way, Castiel thinks.

But Castiel’s tongue still fails him.

 

 

 

 

It’s been a minute and Castiel is still pressed into the wall. It’s been a minute and Dean’s breathing is no longer quick, is no longer so loud but his grip on Castiel’s body is just as strong, just as relentless.

Sometime over the span of a minute, Dean’s face has found its way into the crook of Castiel’s neck. Sometime over these sixty seconds, Dean’s lips have moved so close to this patch of skin that they brush there, send eruptions of sensation that make Castiel’s brain buzz, a strange numbness that makes the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck rise.

Dean’s fingers dig into the black fabric that covers his hips.

Dean’s chest lies flush against Castiel’s own.

It’s so quiet in the room that they can hear static—Castiel’s afraid that if he speaks, Dean will run.

 

 

 

 

He has to say something.

He must, because this is not how Dean is.

This is not Dean.

 _Dean’s not the same anymore_ , Sam had said.

 

 

 

 

It’s Dean who speaks first.

It’s Dean because just as Castiel is about to try, Castiel’s first word— _Dean_ —catches in his throat and Dean says, “Don’t, damn it, don’t.”

So Castiel doesn’t.

Instead Castiel lifts his arms and gingerly wraps them around Dean’s body.

Dean shudders.

 

 

 

 

It’s like the graveyard, Castiel thinks.

It’s like when Castiel had felt as if his grace had been burning out of his body—that had been the feeling of dying, the ache of knowingly losing  _him_ as he went off to become a soul bomb to vanquish Amara.

The ache of knowing and still letting him go.

It’s like this because Dean finally releases Castiel’s hips. It’s like this because Dean’s hands move up and embrace Castiel, and suddenly it is warm and tender like it had been in that graveyard and Dean—Dean suddenly says, “I miss you, Cas.”

“I...” Castiel says and his mouth is dry and he has to work his jaw for a bit, has to swallow a few times before his heart skips a beat and he says to him, “I missed you, too.”

Dean chokes.

Dean lets out a ragged breath, as if he’s been holding it in, and he says, “Damn it. Damn it.”

There's quiet then, quiet again like before and then Dean is pressing closer, pressing closer as if such a thing is even possible with the way that they are crushed against the wall, and his nails are digging in again, into Cas’ back, and Castiel doesn’t know why, but both of them start to pant, start to gasp for breath.

“I thought you were dead,” Castiel says, and his voice breaks, and he remembers his grief, a four hundred and fifty-one day grief and he just wants Dean to know. “Dean, I—”

It’s instant.

At the sound of his name, Dean stumbles, backs away, and Castiel is released from his hold, and Dean looks at him, for a moment, for the smallest pause, and Dean's eyes are wild, as if he can’t believe what’s in front of him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dean says and he flees.

 

 

 

 

Castiel lies in his bed awake all night.

Castiel lies in his bed and he watches the hands of the clock at his bedside move and move and move until Sam knocks on his door and says that it is time for breakfast and Castiel is so late in rising this morning.

But Castiel doesn't go down to the kitchen.

Instead, Castiel goes to stand in front of Dean's room and slowly, very slowly, he turns the knob and lets the door creak open and he says, "I want to know what happened to you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: implied self-harm

Dean’s room isn’t what Castiel remembers.

The weapons that had hung on the walls are gone. Pictures of Dean and Mary and his family have disappeared.

There’s nothing in the room except for the bed.

And a sickening trail of brown stains on the carpet that look like blood.

_I haven’t slit my wrists_ , Dean had told Sam.

 

 

 

 

Dean won’t meet his eyes.

He’s sitting in his bed, a bed that’s been pushed into the corner at an angle that looks wrong, and Dean’s got his knees pulled up to his chest, a grey blanket covering his body.

“I want to know what happened to you,” Castiel says again and Dean buries his face into his hands and lets out a shaky breath.

Castiel takes a step forward, over the door’s threshold, and he knows that he shouldn’t but he does it, anyway—he shuts the door behind him.

“Please,” Castiel says just as Dean says, “I can’t.”

 

 

 

 

It’s quiet again.

It’s always quiet now, Castiel thinks.

It’s not normal for it to be quiet with Dean.

At least not like this.

 

 

 

 

Castiel approaches Dean’s bed despite himself.

He goes slowly, lets his feet drag over the carpet and lets the noise of his arrival carry over. When Dean hears, he lifts his head and he looks at Castiel, sunken tired eyes, body taut with tension.

But Dean doesn’t tell him that he can’t come so Castiel keeps going.

Dean doesn’t even say anything when Castiel sits carefully on the side of his bed.

When Castiel lifts his own shaking hand and presses it gently to Dean’s face, Dean leans his head and presses his cheek back into Castiel’s touch.

“I worry for you,” Castiel says and Dean looks broken.

 

 

 

 

Castiel is always caught off guard by Dean.

Castiel is always caught off guard because nowadays, it seems that Dean is jittery, is so cautious and it lulls Castiel into a false sense of _something,_ because Castiel thinks that Dean will continue to shy away except there will be moments when Dean will suddenly be moving, moving, moving.

Dean’s moving now.

Dean’s eyes look determined but still wild, as if he’s in another place and another time, and Castiel drops his hand from Dean’s face, is about to ask what’s wrong, but Dean’s struggling in the sheets, pulling the blanket off his knees and then Castiel’s taken aback because Dean’s hands are reaching for his face, and then it’s Castiel’s turn to be held lovingly, Dean’s thumb stroking the curve of his jaw and Castiel’s just staring back with wide, wide eyes.

“I need you,” Dean says and his eyes are shining electric, teeming with life, teeming with energy and Dean’s practically vibrating—Castiel can feel the pent up vitality in the tremble of Dean’s fingers. “God, I need you right now, Cas, please.”

“I’m here,” Castiel says but he feels unsure, and it make little sense to feel this unsure when Castiel knows that he’s here— _of course_ he is—but maybe it’s because for a brief flicker as Castiel talks, Dean appears disorientated and his fingers twitch on Castiel’s face, as if he’s going to let go.

“Damn it,” Dean hisses then, the same words that Castiel has heard him say many times and Dean shuffles forward, his knees touching Castiel’s thighs, but he’s still got his hands on Castiel’s cheek, and his fingers are starting to dig in uncomfortably.

“Are you alright?” Castiel says and it’s like a switch.

Dean eyes dart to and fro frantically, and he’s breathing, quick, quick, quick, and then he does something that seems to jolt Castiel out of his very body.

Castiel knows then that something is deeply wrong.

 

 

 

 

This is not Dean.

Because Castiel is like a brother to him.

Because this is what was told to him in the Impala four hundred and fifty-four days ago and it had brought Castiel pain and upset but there had been nothing that could have been done.

So Castiel doesn't understand now why Dean has pressed his mouth to Castiel's lips.

Castiel only knows that he shouldn't kiss him so hungrily.

But still he does it.

For a few seconds.

For a moment that barely registers and then he stops.

This...is not Dean.

 

 

 

 

He hears Dean’s voice, he hears Dean’s footsteps out the door, and he hears his shout of _Cas! Cas! Cas!_ but Castiel keeps walking, keeps moving down the hall of the bunker with the sound of his blood pumping in his ears and he keeps going, keeps going until he collides right into Sam.

“Cas?” Sam says and Castiel looks at him, dazed.

“Cas?” Sam says and Castiel keeps gasping for breath and his blood is still thundering in his ears and it sounds like _Cas! Cas! Cas!_

Castiel finds his hands pushing against Sam’s chest and Castiel does not mean to be violent and he is not angry but there is anxiety welling up in him and it’s flooding him, overwhelming every piece of him.

Sam loses his balance and stumbles a step back.

“What are you keeping hidden about your brother?”

 

 

 

 

Sam has no time to answer.

Sam cannot even open his mouth and pretend that he is going to say something because then Dean has come to the war room, the room where Castiel doesn’t even realize is where he has ended up, and then Dean’s saying, “Cas,” and Castiel’s ears seem to echo it— _CasCasCas_.

_What did you do_? Castiel wants to say but instead he says, “Dean,” and Dean swallows and his face turns pale.

He’s gone.

 

 

 

 

“Why does your brother cower whenever I say his name, Sam? Why does he flee?”

“He’d hate it if I told you,” Sam says.

But Castiel finds out that his presence is already despised mere hours later.

 

 

 

 

Dean shouts.

He’s screaming at Sam and they’re in Dean’s room, and Castiel was in his room but when he had heard Dean, he had slipped out and now he listens in the hallway.

“Why’d you bring him?” Dean says, just like before, except this time, Dean’s voice is hoarse and cracking and crying. “After mom, Sam, after what happened with—”

Homeless, Sam reminds Dean.

Castiel has no home.

 

 

 

 

“It’s killing me,” Dean says. “I don’t understand why—I want to…I was _gone,_ Sa _m_. I was almost gone—”

“No,” Sam says and Sam sounds terrified. “Dean, no.”

Don’t go to that place again.

Castiel thinks of the blood stains on Dean’s floor.

 

 

 

 

“I kissed him,” Dean says. “I kissed Cas and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know me. It was…a mistake.”

(“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Sam says).

“I miss him,” Dean says.

(“I shouldn’t have left you alone.”)

 

 

 

 

There’s a hush.

A dead end.

No more talking.

Just Sam.

Just Dean.

In the bedroom that looks wrong.

No more talking.

Castiel wonders why.

 

 

 

 

Still silence.

 

 

 

 

Still silence.

 

 

 

 

Still more.

 

 

 

 

And then they start again.

 

 

 

 

“I can’t bear it, Sammy,” Dean says. “I can’t bear seeing him. I can’t stand it when he says my name.”

“Then do you want him to call you—”

“Don’t,” Dean says. “Damn it. Damn it. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t talk. Don’t say it.”

Castiel doesn’t hear anymore.

He goes to his room and he sits on the edge of his bed.

Sits there until there’s something heavy on his chest and then he’s lying beneath the blanket, curled in on himself, and it's cold.

For a few hours, he sleeps.

 

 

 

 

There are old grocery bags under the sink. Plastic kinds with tiny holes in them, holes made from the sharp corners of cereal boxes and tin cans.

Castiel takes one. He moves through the night with unheard footsteps as Sam sleeps and Dean tolerates him.

He has only a few belongings. He hopes that Sam will not mind that he has taken an umbrella for the rain.

Before the sun rises, he’s gone.


	5. Chapter 5

_What-the-hell hadn’t been the words running through Dean’s head when Amara had zapped him to God-knows-where. Except—Chuck must’ve known, so maybe God-knows-exactly-where. The fact of the matter had been that Dean had been thrown across the country more than enough times without his permission to no longer be surprised—by a random angel, by Crowley, heck, by Cas—that it hadn’t fazed him when he’d blinked to find himself standing amongst trees._

_What had fazed him had been his mother._

_“Mom?” he had said, just as she had looked at him, eyes wide, just as curious as him._

_“Why did you call me?” she had said, and Dean hadn’t known what to say._

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t know what to say now either.

He doesn’t even know how to sleep.

 

 

 

 

It’s his fault. It’s his goddamn fault because he has a mouth and he used it and now Sam’s worried again, thinking that Dean’s going to do what he’d done the month after Sam had—

Dean grits his teeth.

Damn it.

Damn it.

 

 

 

 

It’s been decades and Sam still hasn’t figured out how not to snore.

Dean turns his back to the mattress, the one strewn on the carpet next to his bed, the one Sam had dragged in again, where Sam had insisted that he was going to sleep tonight.

Doesn’t trust me, Dean thinks. Probably thinks I’m gonna do it again. Probably thinks I’m gonna slit—

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

God.

Sammy’s right.

 

 

 

 

He shouldn’t. He knows. But an hour ticks by and Sam’s been out long enough that Dean can sneak out of the bedroom, go where he needs to be.

He slides out of bed carefully, steps over Sam’s body and then it’s just another moment and then he’s outside in the bunker hallway, walking the path to _his_ room.

When he reaches it, the door’s already ajar.

 

 

 

 

He says his name.

 _Cas_.

But he doesn’t really say it. He just mouths it silently so Cas doesn’t turn, just goes on doing what he’s doing.

 _Cas_.

But he still doesn’t say it.

 

 

 

 

He must’ve heard me, Dean thinks.

Cas must have heard Dean yelling, must have heard Dean telling Sam, asking Sam why the hell he brought Cas here, why he’d go and do that when it kills him every time Cas opens his mouth and says _Dean,_ when it kills him when Cas acts just the same, just perfect like Dean needs him to be until he opens his goddamn mouth and says _Dean. Dean. Dean_.

For god’s sake, he knows.

 

 

 

 

Cas needs to go, Dean thinks.

Cas can’t stay.

Cas—

Dean swallows and brushes a hand over his face, brushes it again and again because he can’t seem to get rid of the tears.

Dean keeps watching Cas from the door way.

 

 

 

 

Dean thinks about how it’s the middle of the night but Cas is holding a plastic bag in his hand and he’s tossing his clothes into it.

Dumbass, you have drawers, Dean thinks, before he can stop himself, because he knows Cas, knows that Cas is probably afraid to take up space or something, probably doesn’t want to put his clothes in the closet where they belong even though Sam gave this room to him, told him that it’s his home.

But that’s not what Dean should be thinking.

Because Cas can’t stay.

Because if Cas stays, then Dean will think—he’ll forget that it’s not—he’ll do something stupid, he’ll kiss Cas again, and he’ll touch him again, and then Cas will run, just like before.

So Dean just watches Cas throw his clothes into the bag.

It’s better if Cas doesn’t put them in the closet.

It’s better if Cas thinks a plastic bag will do for temporary storage, until Sam sees it and says, “What are you doing, man?” and then Sam’ll make Cas put his goddamn clothes in the closet.

But he won’t, Dean thinks.

Because Cas can’t stay.

 

 

 

 

Dean goes back to his room.

He crawls back into bed, and curls up, and goes to sleep.

 

 

 

 

He’s fucking stupid, he thinks, but it’s twenty minutes later and Dean’s still awake and he’s heading to Cas’ room again, and he knows what he wants.

Halfway there, he stops.

Damn it.

Damn it.

He turns back.

 

 

 

 

Another five minutes later, and he doesn’t care.

He’s going to Cas’ room, he’s going and he wants Cas’ hands all over him, he wants Cas’ hands on his hips and he wants Cas’ lips on his neck and he’s going to say, “I need you, Cas,” and Cas will be there for him, will lead Dean to bed and hold him and say something, anything, except for _Dean_.

After this, Dean thinks, Sam’s never going to let me out of his sight.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

 

Dean gets to Cas’ room and Cas isn’t there.

On the bed, there’s a letter, Enochian symbols in a messy scrawl, crossed out before it begins again in English, as if Cas only just remembered where he is, and Dean’s hands shake as he reads it.

 

 

 

 

I’m sorry, Sam.

I can’t stay.

I don’t know what happened to Dean, but he says that it will kill him if I don’t go.

So I am going.

I promise you that I will no longer be such a bother. I hope that you don’t mind that I took your umbrella. When I have the means, I will find a way to return it to you.

Please take care of Dean.

 

 

 

 

Dean looks at the letter numbly.

He doesn’t reread it.

He only stares.

 

 

 

 

It’s been a year since Dean touched the wheel of the Impala but he touches it now.

It’s almost morning.

When Dean pulls out of the bunker’s driveway, he knows exactly where to go.

Cas’ footsteps in the mud.

It’s not raining anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

_He had worked his mouth, had tried to say something, but in the end, there had been no answer to Mary Winchester’s question—why did you call me?_

_Why had Amara brought his mom to the land of the living?_

_“Didn’t mean to disturb your rest,” Dean had finally said, had awkwardly tried to apologize for the failed R.I.P. of Mary Winchester’s soul._

_She had tilted her head, had considered him._

_“I’m going to head back now,” she had said, “and you’re coming with me.”_

_It had seemed that Amara had wanted Dean to rest in peace, too._

_“I can’t,” Dean had said, because he couldn’t have. To save the frigging world, yeah, but to leave Sammy to fend for himself when Dean could just be there for him, when Dean was still goddamn alive now—it was a simple choice. “Mom—I…I gotta go back to Sam.”_

_Mary Winchester had started to walk away but at this, she had turned back to face her son._

_“What do you mean Sam?” she had said and she had been cross. “Did you try to involve him with another hunt? Dean, he has a daughter now. Your brother can’t go gallivanting off with you anym—” She had sighed. “Forget it. It’s freezing out here. Come inside and you can tell me why you phoned in there.”_

_It had been then that Dean had realized that he had been standing outside his old family home in Lawrence, a home obscured by hedges that Dean hadn’t even remembered existing._

_It had been then that Dean had realized that Amara hadn’t sent Mary Winchester to him._

_Instead, she had sent Dean to Mary._

 

 

 

 

Dean could be a bloodhound.

Or maybe he’s just used to losing people.

Six hours of frantic driving, six hours of following Cas’ tracks in the mud and then finding the tracks washed away when it starts to pound rain against his windshield—six hours of questioning strangers, as if he’s on a case when he hasn’t been since before Amara—but no, that’d be a lie, Dean knows—damn it, damn it—six hours of glancing wildly whenever he passes a bus stop and six hours for every time he has to pull off to the side of the road and convince himself that he doesn’t need Cas, that Cas has to go (it’d be better for everyone) except—except Dean _does_ need Cas.

So it’s six hours where Dean keeps going.

And it's then three hours after that when Sam calls for the hundredth time and Dean finally picks up.

 

 

 

 

Come home, Dean.

Now.

You’re not allowed to drive.

You know that.

“Cas left, Sam,” Dean says.

 

 

 

 

He almost runs him over.

He’s neglected to turn on the windshield wipers, and it’s pelting rain, and damn it, damn it, through the blur of the river of water that’s trickling down his windshield, he spots Cas toting Sam’s humongous bright yellow umbrella.

The Impala slides off-course when he slams a foot on the brake.

The front tire sinks into a ditch.

The car lurches forward, a dangerous angle that threatens to flip the car onto its side.

But it’s Cas whose body flips.

It’s Cas who’s knocked down to the ground.

That’s when Sam calls Dean again.

 

 

 

 

No answer.

 

 

 

 

Cas?

 

 

 

 

The phone rings again.

 

 

 

 

No answer.

 

 

 

 

Cas?

 

 

 

 

The phone rings again.

 

 

 

 

Cas? 

 

 

 

 

It’s raining so hard that even though Cas is facedown down in the mud, there’s no dirt on his cheeks; it’s just washed away.

It’s raining so hard but it’s still not enough to wash away the blood gushing from Cas’ forehead.

 

 

 

 

There’s a forest on the other side of the ditch, a forest that Cas had been walking beside, walking to god knows where.

There’s probably a farm behind it, Dean thinks.

The road at his back is deserted.

No one’s going to help them, Dean thinks.

 

 

 

 

From the Impala, Dean’s phone rings again.

This time, Dean rushes to get it.

 

 

 

 

Dean drops the phone onto the road pavement and the screen shatters.

Yet it’s still working and Dean can hear Sam’s “Dean, you there? Dean? Dean?” from the speaker but when he talks, Sam doesn’t hear a goddamn thing.

Dean looks at the Impala, stuck in the ditch and he knows that he’s never going to be able to get it out.

 

 

 

 

Cas groans from where Dean’s got Cas’ head cradled in his lap.

Dean can feel his mouth moving against the fabric of his jeans.

“Cas?” he says and Cas says, “Dean.”

Damn it.

Damn it.

Dean feels something straining in his neck.

Forget it just this once, Dean tells himself. 

 

 

 

Cas scrambles for him all of a sudden, grabs onto the lapels of Dean’s jacket as if in a panic and his eyes are wide, wide even in the rain and he says, “Don’t.”

Dean doesn’t know what Cas means.

But he presses his thumb to where Cas’ forehead is bleeding and Cas hisses.

It’s not deep.

“You were unconscious,” Dean says but Cas shakes his head.

“Just winded,” he says. “Why did you try to kill me?”

 

 

 

 

Dean’s right. There’s a farm on the other side and a house in the distance. When the old lady who owns it opens the backdoor, she sees two men, one bloody and limping and she must be wary because she calls her husband.

“Car accident,” Dean says just as Cas says, “May we use your phone?”

 

 

 

 

“You should call the police,” the woman’s husband grumbles and he probably thinks that Dean and Cas are up to no good when they insist that they don’t want the police—they just want Sam.

Sam freaks when he hears what Dean tells him ("Cas' ankle's twisted, Cas hit his head on a rock but he's fine, Sam") and he’s so loud that Dean cringes and holds the phone a ways from his ear so of course the farmer couple listens in on everything and then they seem a little bit more at ease after that just because Sam seems so sane.

Sam says that he’ll be there to pick them up in nine and a half hours because he’s not going to drive like a maniac and do what Dean did.

 

 

 

 

They stand awkwardly by the door. They’re drenched and dripping wet over the kitchen tiles so Dean is going to nudge Cas and shuffle them outside except Cas is shivering.

Dean doesn't really want to go outside.

The old lady must notice, because she invites them in and tells them that they should dry off. She makes them strip and hangs their clothes on a rack. They share her blow dryer and attempt to evaporate the water out of their undergarments. Then they sit huddled in the couple’s living room and drink coffee while no one says anything.

When the rain stops, “I’ll help you move your car,” the husband says.

 

 

 

 

The rain never stops.

Instead, Sam says that he’s going to be late by maybe too many hours because this time, the road’s closed for a car accident that Dean didn’t commit.

Cas huffs, puts his head in his hands in his frustration but Dean tells him to keep his hands away from his head because he spent a long time bandaging it and hell, as if he’s going to let Cas ruin it just twenty minutes later.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” Cas says. "I'm tired."

 

 

 

 

The woman hears and offers them beds for the night.

“One of you can take the couch,” the husband says and he’s eying them hard, like he's been eying them for the last hour while Dean's fingers have every once in a while run comfortingly over Cas' naked shoulder, while Dean's had his bare thigh pressed just too damn close to Cas'. “Your injured friend’s probably better suited to the bed.”

“He’s my brother,” Cas interjects and Dean doesn’t know why Cas feels the need to tell the old man that but when he does, the old man nods and says, “Guess y’all won’t mind sharing the bed then.”

The old man gets up from his rocking chair and stomps out of the sitting room.

 

 

 

 

They’re in the guest bedroom, and they’ve just walked in, and Dean shuts the door behind them.

Cas stands with his back to Dean.

Cas starts breathing quickly.

They're always doing this, Dean thinks. 

 

 

 

“I didn’t try to kill you,” Dean says.

 

 

 

 

There’s a lamp in the corner of the room, old lightbulb flickering like candlelight, and the room’s simple, just a wardrobe and a big bed with a flowery bed skirt pushed against the wall.

Dean takes a step forward.

 

 

 

 

“I was leaving,” Cas says and he’s shaking but the room’s uncomfortably warm even though they’re both only in their boxers. “De—I don’t know why you came but I'm going as soon as I know that Sam has you in his care.”

Dean hates those words. It's not what _he_ 'd say.  

"I can take care of myself, Cas," but Cas knows—Cas says, "I wish that you would be honest with me."

Those words make Dean forget where he is.

Those words make him goddamn desperate and it's instant, and it's like hours ago when Dean woke and tried to go to Cas, because he'd needed him and Cas hadn't been there.

So maybe that's why Dean confesses, "I want you to take care of me."

Like before, Dean thinks.

And damn it, damn it, he can't stop.

He moves to Cas, sees the muscles in Cas’ back ripple and tense when Dean presses into him from behind. He wraps his arms around Cas, tight until they’re so close, so against each other’s warmth that the skin of Dean’s thighs meets the back of Cas’ legs and Cas breathes even harder than before and he’s going to say his name, he’s going to say _Dean_ , and Dean just wishes that he wouldn’t.

Cas doesn’t.

Instead, Cas just keeps panting and doesn’t move, and it's so easy like this. It's so goddamn easy to forget that the last time that they'd truly known each other, they had been standing in a graveyard pretending to be just brothers—that this was how Cas fucking remembered Dean now, that this was something that Dean didn't know anymore, didn't want to know anymore.

So it's so easy when he presses a kiss to Cas’ shoulder. It's so easy when he touches Cas like he's missed touching him, and Cas shouldn’t be doing anymore falling after Dean rammed the Impala into him today but maybe Dean forgets because he lets go of Cas’ waist and pushes him into bed.

Cas topples face first onto the mattress and he’s quiet when it happens and he’s even more quiet when Dean clambers over him to straddle his hips, and he's quieter, quieter, quieter and stiller than a statue when Dean lowers himself carefully until he can reach and kiss Cas’ cheek—maybe Cas is holding his breath now.

But maybe he's not because then Cas jerks from beneath Dean’s body and he turns his cheek away, buries his face into the pillow and stifles a moan and then Dean's burning, feeling hot and he moves his lips to Cas’ ear, works his mouth more furiously than before.

Cas shudders this time, shudders every time Dean finds a new part of his body to kiss, but there’s so much bare skin and so much area to cover and Dean's not sure how he'll ever reach it all.

Cas is wrecked, Dean thinks, because Cas talks then, rumbling nonsensical words, and he reaches out for Dean, wraps a firm hand around Dean's wrist and uncovers his face, turns so that his cheek is visible to Dean again and then Cas kisses the wrist that he's holding.

It's the only thing that Cas manages to do before Cas comes back to his senses.

He drops Dean's wrist.

This time, the silence from Cas is ominous.

This time, the stillness of Cas' body makes Dean still, too.

"I can't take care of you," Cas says.


	7. Chapter 7

_Was he in heaven?_

_It was what Dean had thought as he’d followed his mother bewildered into the house where so many years ago, she had burned on the ceiling._

_But Mary Winchester had been so animate and as Dean had already known heaven to be an aggregation of memories, recordings played again and again, he’d known that Amara hadn’t killed him._

_She’d done something else._

_“Two in the morning, Dean,” Mary had said as they had sat at a table that Dean hadn’t remembered ever knowing. “Whatever you have to say, it better be important.”_

_“I…” Dean had swallowed. “I didn’t call you.”_

_Mary had raised an eyebrow._

_“No? Well, who left this rather alarming message on my answering machine then, Dean?”_

_And Mary Winchester had risen from her seat._

_And Dean had gone pale as he had listened to the sound of his own voice rolling off of the machine, a voice that had sounded terrified._

Mom _, the Dean on the answering machine had said,_ are you okay?

There was a woman here, mom.

She said my time with you was up.

She said she was gonna take me from you.

She said to say good-bye.

 

 

 

Cas says, “I can’t take care of you.”

 

 

 

 

They’re breathing harshly together. Dean’s still pinning Cas to the mattress and Cas is staring somewhere far off into the distance, somewhere, Dean thinks, where maybe to Cas, he doesn’t exist, just like he damn well doesn’t exist now, not like—not like he should.

Dean knows that he should get up. Dean knows that they should separate and that the hands that he’s got clenched around Cas’ shoulders should slacken, should let Cas go.

But Dean keeps holding on.

Dean moves his hands to Cas’ hips, moves them up the sides of Cas’ bare back, and Cas pants, Cas jerks every time Dean hits a ticklish spot, a sensitive spot, until Dean’s got his hands on Cas’ shoulders again, still not letting go.

He brushes his lips across the back of Cas’ neck and Cas’ eyes flutter closed.

 

 

 

 

There’s a knock on the door.

Cas opens his eyes, turns his head.

“Dean,” Cas says, softly, and Dean pretends that he doesn’t hear.

 

 

 

 

The knock comes again. It must be the old woman. Maybe it’s her husband. Maybe Sam’s calling again.

What’ll she say, Dean thinks, when she sees them like this?

His fingers around Cas’ shoulders tighten of their own accord.

Damn it.

Damn it.

 

 

 

 

“Dean,” Cas says so Dean hisses, “Don’t call me that.”

“Honey, I’m coming in,” the woman warns.

Cas says, “A minute please.”

 

 

 

 

She knows.

She sees them, sitting properly on opposite ends of the bed, Dean with his feet hanging over the edge, Cas with his own knees drawn to his chest. But they can’t fool her. They’re sweaty and flushed and the sheets that she must have spread over her guest bed with an iron are a crumpled disaster.

The marks that Dean’s left digging into Cas’ shoulders are still burning red.

 

 

 

 

Cas leaves Dean alone with the old lady in the room.

He’s answering a call from Sam.

He doesn’t want Dean to hear.

 

 

 

 

She must be nearing her seventies, Dean thinks, but her hair’s too white to be real.

“I oughta leave the phone here,” she says, “if your friend’s going to keep calling.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Oh?” she says and it doesn’t sound like she believes him.

 

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t know what Cas tells Sam but whatever it is has Sam saying, “Are you alright, Dean?”

Cas leaves the room, maybe to give Dean some privacy for the call, but as soon as Sam says, “Are you alright, Dean?” Dean cuts the call and sits on the bed and waits for Cas to return.

When Cas does return, he’s not in his boxers anymore. He’s not so uncovered. He’s dressed.

“The clothes were dry,” he says. “You should…”

But Dean doesn’t make a move towards the door.

 

 

 

 

Cas won’t look at him.

“Sam will not be here for a while,” Cas says.

“The guest bed is small,” Cas says.

“Maybe one of us should take the sofa as Mr. Miller suggested,” Cas says.

Cas limps a little closer to the bed on his twisted ankle, close enough to touch.

“I’ll take the sofa,” Cas says.

When he turns to leave, Dean catches him by the wrist and pulls him into his lap.

Cas exhales shakily.

Cas says, “Please.”

 

 

 

 

The bed in the old couple’s guest bedroom is pushed right up against the wall so when Cas crawls in under the sheets, he moves to the very edge of the bed, until his head and knees touch the wall, too.

His back, he exposes to Dean.

Dean resists the urge to press himself up against Cas because Cas says, “Keep to your side.”

Please.

Cas’ spine is stiff, Dean thinks.

 

 

 

 

Halfway through the night, Cas moves in his sleep.

He plasters his cheek against the wall and curls in on himself. Dean sees bruises on his neck.

Dean doesn’t even remember kissing Cas so hard.

Damn it. Damn it.

God, what is he doing?

 

 

 

 

It’s freezing outside.

It’s not raining anymore. It’s turned to snow.

Dean steps barefoot in it, sees the fields of the farm glow eerily white in the coming dawn. The phone from the house is in his hand.

He calls Sam.

 

 

 

 

Sam’s angry that he cut on him but he stays calmer than Dean.

Dean can’t help it, every time they fucking talk about it, every time he feels the grief, the fury, at what Sam did back then.

“I was happy, Sam,” Dean says. “Why’d you have to send him back?”

But Sam’s voice is hysterical.

“Do you hear yourself, Dean? Why I had to send him back? I don’t know. Maybe because he wasn’t you? Maybe because the universe was in freaking disorder, Dean! And—and how could I have known that you didn’t—for all I know, you could have been off far worse, you could have been—”

Dean cuts the phone on him again.

Sam doesn’t try calling back.

It’s all wrong, Dean thinks. It’s all wrong—

He sinks to the icy floor on his knees. Clutches his head. Sobs.

When he goes back to the bedroom, Cas is still asleep.

 

 

 

 

Dean wakes him up.

Dean wakes him up, guilty, and Cas is disoriented for a moment, rubs his eyes, hair in disarray, and he says—or he will say, Dean thinks— _Dean_.

But Cas doesn’t say, “Dean.”

Instead, he just closes his mouth firmly and Dean sees his lips tremble.

Dean darts forward and kisses him.

Cas’ lips keep trembling.

And then he pushes Dean away.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, “and I’ve tried.”

Because Cas remembers the last time. Because Cas goddamn knows that Dean’s always been a coward. Because the last time and the time before that and the goddamn time before that, they’d been nothing to each other, nothing like this and now Dean won’t stop kissing him, touching him and Dean can see Cas’ ancient mind working infinitely to figure it out but he still can’t.

“I love you,” Dean says and Cas seems to lose his voice.

 

 

 

 

You would never say those words; you’ve let them die in your throat a thousand times and then you’ve died with them.

You’re not Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

Cas sleeps with his back turned to him, curled in on himself, and Dean doesn’t know how he managed it, how he managed to sleep again after what Dean told him.

But Cas did.

Dean swallows.

 

 

 

 

It’s still snowing.

 

 

 

 

He’s losing his mind.

 

 

 

 

Daylight’s dull light is creeping in through the window. Blue light. Cold light. Snowy light.

Dean’s still losing his mind.

 

 

 

 

Sam’ll be here soon, Dean thinks, and then Cas’ll leave.

Damn it.

Damn it.

 

 

 

 

Cas is staring at him, confused, but he’s only like that for a moment before his features strain, into tiredness, into something that maybe pities Dean, or maybe something goddamned worse.

“You woke me,” Cas says.

 _Again_.

Cas sits up in bed.

Dean’s hands start shaking.

 

 

 

 

Cas’ hand reaches out and clasps the side of Dean’s face.

Dean shuts his eyes.

“Did you sleep?” Cas says, soft.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s sunken dark-circled eyes give too much away.

“Lie down,” Cas says, and Dean follows the command easily, maybe too easily because he’s used to following orders now.

 _Eat this_ , Sam had said in the last few months. _Drink that. Take this. Sleep. Don’t close your door._

_Eat._

_Eat._

_Eat_.

But it had been hard to eat without an appetite.

“Close your eyes,” Cas says, when Dean’s lying on his stomach, when he’s got his cheek pressed to the pillow and he can’t help but stare at the door of their room.

Not our room, Dean reminds himself.

Close your eyes, Dean.

So Dean does.

Cas’ fingers in his hair are warm and gentle. Cas’ thumb soothes the skin over his temple, coaxes the tension out of his face. He sits at Dean’s side, legs crossed, but Dean wishes that Cas would just lie with him.

For a second, Cas’ thumb runs over his lips and Dean’s eyes flutter open.

Close your eyes.

But Dean doesn’t.

Cas averts his.

God, it’s so quiet, Dean thinks.

 

 

 

 

They can’t sleep. Cas kisses mightily, maybe because he thinks he’s still a raging celestial mass, and Dean’s own reciprocation seems meek and soft in comparison. Dean’s on his back and Cas has got his own legs swung around Dean’s hips and Cas’ fingers are in his hair again.

It’s so close to waking hours.

The couple who owns the farm will come knocking, Dean thinks.

The bed creaks with every shift of weight.

“Cas,” Dean says, every time they pull apart for air and each time, his voice seems a little more desperate and maybe he just goddamn is. “ _Cas_.”

If Dean closes his eyes, he can pretend.

But maybe Cas sees him pretending because Cas pulls away.

They pant.

 

 

 

 

It’s morning.

Sam’s finally made it to the farm.

 

 

 

 

The car is lost, Sam says, but they’ll come back for it after the snow stops falling.

So they leave the Impala behind.

 

 

 

 

“It was nice of them,” Sam says. “The farmers—letting two strange men spend the night—man, Dean, do you think we should’ve left them something? Money or an appreciatory card or something? Mr. Miller said that he’d even keep an eye on the Impala for us.”

Dean doesn’t answer.

 

 

 

 

“You guys hungry?” Sam says, glancing at Dean, craning his neck at the rear view mirror to glance at Cas in the backseat. “Bunker’s still hours away. Could stop at a diner.”

When neither of them offer an opinion, Sam pulls into the lot of a fast food restaurant.

Sam hadn’t reprimanded Dean for stealing the Impala, for crashing it, but now Sam’s lips are pressed into a tight line.

 

 

 

 

Sam sits across from Cas in the booth and Dean slides in next to Cas.

Cas stiffens.

Dean picks up the menu and stares at the print until the letters burn themselves into his vision.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t want anything,” Dean says.

“I’ll get you a burger,” Sam says and he leaves to go stand in the order line.

 

 

 

 

For a moment, it’s silent.

 

 

 

 

“You don’t love me,” Cas says. “You love him.”

He’s right.

“But you’re him,” says Dean.

“Dean—”

“Don’t—”

“How can I be him,” Cas says, “if you can’t even stand me calling you by your name?”

Dean can’t help it when he starts shaking.

“It hurts me,” Cas says, “that you are in love with some version of me in some other universe but that I was never good enough for you in this one—that I couldn’t be in seven years what he became to you in months.”

Dean takes a breath. Holds it in. Still shakes.

“I am…only a brother to you,” Cas says. “I won’t pretend to be—I won’t take advantage of a situation that—Dean, you…”

Cas trails off.

Cas turns to stare out the window of the restaurant.

“I can’t be selfish,” Cas says and his voice cracks. “I just share his face.”

 

 

 

 

When they get to the bunker, it’s night, and Cas won’t sleep with him.

“I’m not him,” Cas says. “I wish I was.”

Dean goes to bed alone.

 

 

 

 

Cas stays a week, but he tells Sam that he’s leaving.

“I know now, Sam,” Cas says, at breakfast, and Cas’ eyes dart behind him, to the fridge where Dean’s standing, and even though Cas’ voice is low, it’s not low enough to be secret. “Dean—he doesn’t see me the way that—the way that he did before.”

Sam looks grim.

“He wants me to be him,” Cas says, “and I want to indulge him.”

 

 

 

 

Sometime when Dean doesn’t know it, Cas leaves again.

“I found him a place,” Sam says. “It’s close and he’ll come back to the bunker eventually.”

But you need to…get better, Dean.

“Maybe he’ll visit,” Sam says.

But he won’t.

 

 

 

 

A month goes by.

Then he shows.

He's not the same.

 

 

 

 

They stand in the doorway of the bunker. Cas is wearing a new trench coat, a new blue tie from an old barn years ago and an expression on his face that makes Dean feel like something ominous is about to happen. Cas' eyes dart to his and then he reaches with his fingers outstretched, presses two to Dean's forehead.

"I can make it like it was before," Cas says. 


	9. Chapter 9

_Shivering. Cold. That was what it had been like when the British Men of Letters had dropped Sam back at the bunker after a well-executed kidnapping._

_“A misunderstanding,” they had said. “I hope we have your forgiveness, Mr. Winchester.”_

_Sam had coughed. The wet cell that they had locked him in for a month had given him pneumonia._

_“Your angel friend will be graceless,” they had said. “A consequence of the spell used to weaken him.”_

_We’re sorry, they had added. “The counter spell needed to restore his grace was lost from our records when the Germans bombed us in the Second World War.”_

_So blame Hitler. Don’t blame us._

_“Where is he?” Sam had asked. “Where’d you send Cas?”_

_They hadn’t known that either so they had left him to his own devices._

_But when Sam had entered the bunker, it hadn’t been empty._

_Dean had been there._

_The wrong Dean._

 

 

 

Sam knows that Cas feels guilty. Cas walks like he’s sneaking. He laughs nervously whenever Dean says anything that sounds too close to what they _did_. Every time Cas thinks that Dean _knows_ what they did.

But Dean doesn’t know, thank god.

Sam’s pretty sure, anyway.

 

 

 

 

It’s been a month since it happened. Since Cas showed up at the bunker in a trench coat and tie, fully juiced up with mojo again. Since Dean, depressed and maybe dying, opened the door.

But Dean’s not like that now.

Because Cas took his memories away.

Now Dean doesn’t know what happened to him after Amara.

He only remembers being locked up in a cell and one month where Sam suffered from pneumonia. Memories that were Sam’s. Memories that are now Dean’s.

Implants.

“We’ll tell him soon, Cas,” Sam promises, “but…just not yet.”

 

 

 

 

They’re in the library. Dean’s messing up the settings on Sam’s phone and Sam’s pretending not to notice out of brotherly obligation. Instead, he tries to focus on the hunt. The research. The wendigo that they’ve been trying to track down.

“Hey,” Dean calls then, from the other end of the table. “I say we call Cas and then hit the road.”

“He’s got angel business, Dean.”

But that’s a lie.

Cas doesn’t have anything to do anymore. He’s holed up in the apartment that Sam bought him months ago, before Cas went off without telling Sam and found the spell that they needed to restore his grace. The grace that Sam had convinced Cas to use to help Dean.

He’s lonely, Sam knows. Sam’s seen him, lying in bed, or pacing restlessly in the apartment because it’s not like Cas needs to sleep. Sam’s seen Cas. He’s seen that all Cas does now is stay in that apartment and wait for Dean to pray and call him down for help, like they’ve always done with Cas.

So that’s why Sam lies, to avoid Dean’s suspicion, to avoid his scrutiny.

Because in the past, Sam had always dodged calling Cas, unless necessary. He’d thought that they had been bothering the angel. He’d thought that he’d been doing Cas a favour.

He had been wrong.

 

 

 

 

They hit the road.

They’re in the diner.

“Still can’t find the son of a bitch,” Dean says casually.

Man, Dean’s always been thin. Too easy to see through. He wants to call Cas so bad.

This time, Sam pretends that he’s fed up with research. He pretends that he still hasn’t found the wendigo, even though it’s been days that he’s known. They’d even driven past its hiding spot.

He’s been doing that a lot lately. Pretending that he’s not a whiz at the computer. Pretending that Google searches are beyond his capability. But it’s hard. Especially when Dean keeps Googling, too. Especially the times when the solution’s the first result and Dean gives him a funny look and Sam has to wrack his brain for an answer that seems reasonable to explain his own apparent stupidity.  

But at least today, Dean hasn’t been able to find the wendigo himself.

Or if he has, he’s pretending he hasn’t because he wants to see Cas.

So Sam gives in because he’s thinking about Cas, fully-powered, curled up in bed and now, maybe as depressed as Dean was just a month ago.

What did we even fix? Sam thinks.

 

 

 

 

When Dean closes his eyes and prays, Dean can barely hide his ecstatic grin.

Sam can barely hide his sadness.

 

 

 

 

Cas can fly now so he teleports right next to Dean.

Dean decides to flirt with the waitress that brings them their burgers and Sam sees Cas trying to hide his hurt expression.

Pained. Cas looks so pained.

Sam feels like crap.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s bleeding out. Sam’s on his back groaning as he tries to get his bearings. Cas is busy throttling the wendigo.

When Sam gets up, the wendigo’s obliterated and Cas has Dean’s head pulled into his lap.

Cas is panicking.

“Dean,” Cas is saying and his hands on Dean’s face are shaking. “Dean.”

He’s forgotten that he’s an angel again.

“Heal him,” Sam rasps but Cas doesn’t hear him. He should, Sam thinks. He’s an angel.

Dean’s going to die if Cas doesn’t do something.

But Cas remembers or something in him sparks because there’s light that Sam blinks away and then Dean’s fine.

When Sam manages to sit up, he sees Dean frozen, shocked, neck stiff in Cas' lap.

Cas kissed him.

Cas looks bewildered.

Cas disappears.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little silly :)

_“You’re alive?”_

_Sam hadn’t been able to believe himself when he had found Dean sitting at a table in the bunker library._

_Dean had looked paranoid._

_“’Course I’m alive,” he had said. “Why—Sammy—is—is—” Dean had tripped over his words. He had swallowed. After that, his words had been a whisper. “Is that what happened? Did everyone…die? Cas?”_

_“This is amazing, Dean,” Sam had said then, grinning widely, the first real smile since his torture session at the British’s hands. He had moved forward, stumbled a bit because he had still been a bit sick and dizzy, but he’d gathered his idiot of a brother into his arms for a good long minute. “God, Dean,” he’d babbled. “How did this happen? I thought when the sun was fine—that Amara’d killed you—but—this is good news. Man, I’ve needed some good news because what with Cas missing—”_

_“Cas is missing?”_

_“Oh, right.” Sam had stalled for a moment. “Man, Dean, when we thought you were gone, we came here. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. There was this woman. She used some sigil and sent Cas away and then she shot me. Took me to the freaking U.K. of all places. I don’t know, man, but they say Cas fell. He’s just out there somewhere. Human. We should—”_

_But Sam’s voice had died in his throat._

_The look on Dean’s face had made him do it._

_And then he’d finally taken Dean in._

_Hair different._ Groomed _. Clothes different. Heck,_ pinstripes _. A flamboyant pink tie._

_Sensible shoes._

_But mostly the look in Dean’s wide eyes. Mostly his demeanor. His uncharacteristically anxious and paranoid demeanor._

_“What the hell happened to you?” Sam had said._

_He sold_ houses _. He was a_ realtor _. Part-time. To make a living in whatever alternate dimension Amara had pulled him from._

_“You don’t hunt?” Sam had said. He’d had a hard time believing this._

_“Well, yeah, of course I do, Sam. I was just back from a hunt when that freaking psycho woman came and freakin’—what?”_

_Sam had stared at Dean’s clothes._

_“You hunt in this?” Sam had said. His brain had become a little numb._

_Dean had tugged at his pink tie nervously. Had scratched the back of his neck._

_“Well, yeah,” Dean had said, as if_ duh _, Sam, of course I shoot silver bullets and dodge monster claws in a tailor-made suit while working as a_ realtor _. I hunt in_ style _._

_“I don’t get it,” Sam had said._

_Dean had laughed. Giggled. Had yanked at his tie again. Clearly being brought up in a dimension where their loving mother hadn’t died still hadn’t done much for his self-esteem._

_“Why.”_

_The word had rolled off of Sam’s tongue slowly._

_Dean had licked his lips. “Why what, Sam?”_

_Sam had blinked. It wasn’t his fault. He still couldn’t believe it._

_“Why a realtor?”_

_“Well, hunting takes money, Sam, and to make money…”_

_Oh,_ god. _He made an_ honest _living._

_It had taken time. Explaining what had happened. Or at least what Sam had thought had happened. After this alternate dimension Dean had recounted his tale of Amara showing up and demanding that he say good-bye to all that he knew, Sam had had a theory. Why Amara had decided to take this Dean and throw him_ here _was unclear. But it had meant something. At least, Sam had thought that it did._

_It had meant that his real brother was alive, swapped into and stuck in this weirdo Dean’s time line._

_At least, that was what Sam had hoped._

_Sam had been too tired to start research right away, but he had done it, anyway._

_There had to be a spell, surely, but every spell that he had encountered had needed specifics. Sam hadn’t known any specifics of this Dean’s dimension. He hadn’t know what number it was, like the spell in_ Wicked Witchy Creations _had wanted. Or what sector of the universe it was located in, like the thick tome on_ Magic and the Interstellar _called for. All he had had to go on had been what this alternate dimension Dean could tell him._

_(It wasn’t much.)_

_Or at least, they weren’t the things that Sam had wanted to know._

_“Paisley curtains,” Dean had jabbered on non-stop as Sam had bit into every book that he could find. “Sammy, in my dimension, you have paisley curtains. You know, it really messes up the zen of your living room. And Jess doesn’t like them either, you know. We’ve been trying to drop hints but…”_

_Deep breaths. Sam had taken a lot of those._

_When Sam had been too exhausted to continue researching, he had brewed a potion to induce insomnia. Dean had harped on him for that._

_“Eight hours,” Dean had said. “The_ Prim and Proper Men _’s health magazine states that for clear skin and a sound mind, eight hours are recommended, Sammy. Oh, this reminds me of that time…”_

_Sam had went off for a supply run then. Anything to get away from this insufferable Dean. Besides, after a month, there wouldn’t have been anything salvageable in the fridge, anyway, and Sam had been hungry._

_Burgers and beers. Insufferable Dean hadn’t touched them._

_“They make me break out,” he had protested, “and the_ Docile Househusband’s Guidebook _says that to please your spouse, a diet rich in saturated fats isn’t ideal for…”_

_Sam’s eyes had glazed over. At least until Insufferable Dean had mysteriously disappeared into the kitchen. Then Sam had had a respite for two hours. Two hours where he still hadn’t found any leads on how to save his real brother. After that, Insufferable Dean had brought out a home-cooked meal._

_“Fresh tomato-spinach stuffed ravioli with a fine white wine butter sauce and a side of prawns, steamed, cooked to a sizzling…”_

_Sam had been dumbfounded._

_“Where the hell did you get that, Dean?”_

_“I made it.”_

_“Where did you get the ingredients?”_

_“The fridge.”_

_“We didn’t have freaking prawns in the fridge, Dean!”_

_“I bought it in the groceries last week,” Insufferable Dean had said._

_Sam had choked._

_“How long have you been here?”_

_Dean had smoothed out his pink Louis Vuitton tie._

_“A month,” he’d said._

_Sam had died._

_Apparently when Amara had thrown Insufferable Dean into this dimension, it had been the same day that the world had been saved, and also the same day that Sam had been shot and dragged with a ball gag in his mouth to the airport._

_So Dean—the real Dean, the one who’d gone off to blow up Amara—must have already been stuck in Insufferable Dean’s dimension for thirty days._

_The fact that Insufferable Dean had neglected to tell him this had made Sam want to lock the bastard in their dungeon room._

_But he hadn’t done that._

_Mostly because the meal that Dean had cooked hadn’t been half-bad and Sam had really needed some nutrition._

_“I don’t know,” Insufferable Dean had said. “One minute, I was at the phone leaving my mom a good-bye message, and the next, here. But the weird thing is, Sammy, that this address is the same as my house!”_

_The bunker didn’t exist in Insufferable Dean’s timeline, it seemed._

_“You know,” Dean had said and Sam really hadn’t wanted to know but that hadn’t mattered to Insufferable Dean, “if you update the kitchen, you could get a good price if you sold. Eccentric buyers—a bunker would be a dream home!”_

_Sam had never thought that he’d be glad that their mother had died._

_But in that moment, nothing had seemed more like bliss._

_When night had fallen, Insufferable Dean had become subdued._

_“You going to sleep?” Sam had quizzed, when the abrupt silence had turned eerie._

_Dean had laced his fingers together. Had unlaced them. Had picked off a piece of lint off his trousers._

_“In a bit,” Dean had said._

_Sam had left it at that._

_Or at least, Sam had wanted to leave it at that. But apparently asking Dean anything invited an emotional counselling session._

_“It’s just that,” Dean had started a minute later, “I haven’t really been able to sleep well since coming here, Sam.”_

_Don’t groan, Sam had told himself. Don’t groan. Don’t groan. Don’t lock him in the dungeon._

_“It’s just been so hard,” Dean had said. “Sleeping by myself. And you know what the magazines say. Just last issue of the_ Tips and Tricks for Well-behaved Gentlemen Groomed for a Submissive Disposition _stated that the best beauty sleep comes when you’re in the arms of a strong, confident man. And it’s so true, Sammy. I’ve had to use concealer for the last two weeks because of the dark circles.”_

_“What the hell have you been reading, Dean?”_

_Really, it was the question that Sam should’ve asked hours ago._

_“Oh, you know, Sam. Just the usual that I’m subscribed to._ How to Please Your Man _’s weekly. The_ Adonis Style _newsletter._ The Birds and the Bees _._ Help book for Suffers of Erectile Dysfunction _._ 101 Kinky Bedroom Secrets _…”_

_Sam had spluttered a lot as he had listened, as Dean had droned on and on because according to him, Sam had wanted the list of every title in his morning read. He had also wondered how much Insufferable Dean paid in subscription fees every month ($472.63). When Sam had gotten up to get coffee, Dean hadn’t even noticed that he’d left._

_“Oh, there’s also my free online subscription to the_ Daily Phrases to Make Your Man Feel Like He’s the Breadwinner When He’s Actually Not _. You know, Sam, that could help with your marriage with Jess. I’ve noticed the strain between you two lately._ Daily Phrases _says that the most effective way to use their lines is to start off after you’ve cleaned the house and cooked the evening meal. Then when your husband comes home from work, help him remove his coat and seat him on the sofa. They say if you want to induce an affectionate response, cuddling up on your husband’s lap can go a long way and win his approval. The action reaffirms your follower role. Then all you do is choose one of the daily phrases from the list. The one that really won over Cas was, ‘Hey, honey, do—”_

_Sam had spat out his coffee._

_“Cas is your_ husband _?”_

_To be fair, it hadn’t really come as a surprise._

_But Sam had wondered then what Dean would think—the real Dean—when he met Cas and Insufferable Dean’s life of crazy._

_He had needed to act fast._

_He had needed to get Dean out of there._

 

 

 

 

After the wendigo’s dead and Cas disappears and leaves Dean on the ground, Dean gets up and doesn’t say anything.

There’s a feeling in Sam’s gut then.

It feels like how Dean has been for months. Before Cas had erased his memories of his life in the other dimension. Before Cas had erased the last few months where Sam knows that the two of them have been kissing, touching each other in ways that Dean doesn’t remember anymore.

Sam opts for silence on the car ride home.

Dean doesn’t think Sam saw Cas kiss him.

Dean’s hands on the wheel are shaky.

 

 

 

 

Every once in a while, Dean brings his fingers up to his lips and presses them there.

Sam doesn’t say anything.

He pretends not to notice.

 

 

 

 

They stop for the night. It’s somewhere in the middle of nowhere and they’ve got half-eaten food from earlier so they don’t look for a motel. They just sleep in the car.

Dean falls asleep first.

Sam lies awake.

 

 

 

 

He’s wrong.

Dean’s awake.

Dean’s awake and he thinks that Sam’s asleep but he’s wrong so Sam hears everything that Dean whispers to the night.

“Cas,” Dean says. “You there?”

 

 

 

 

Cas doesn't show.

 

 

 

 

The car rumbles. Dean's driving.

Sam pretends to wake up.

"Dean?" He makes his voice sound groggy. "Where are we going?"

 

 

 

 

Dean won't tell him where they're going.


	11. Chapter 11

_The more days that had passed with Sam digging through book after book to retrieve Dean from the alternate dimension, the more of a sad stammering mess Insufferable Dean had become._

_Instead of pointing out the fatal fashion flaws that Sam’s plaid wardrobe committed on a regular basis, or the real estate value of every house they passed whenever they left the bunker—which they’d had to do to find more books on interdimensional travel, because Sam had actually exhausted the resources in the Men of Letters bunker—Insufferable Dean had started to weep in the evenings when he would be reminded of how he had used to cook for his husband, Cas, and in the mornings, resort to asking maybe around 138749 questions about Dean-Dean—the real Dean._

_See, Insufferable Dean had wanted to make sure that the Dean with his husband was suitable enough to take care of alternate dimension Cas until he could get back._

_“I’m sure Cas can take care of himself,” Sam had said many a time but Insufferable Dean had insisted that that was simply not the case._

_But after the morning, by the time lunch came ’round, there would be more crying, and just plain gross sobbing with snot and shaking hands if Sam ever put another useless book down. And he did that a lot._

_Basically, Insufferable Dean had become Miserable Dean._

_And that had still made him insufferable._

 

 

 

_It’s not that Sam hadn’t wondered._

_He had._

_Every book._

_Every flip of the page._

_Every time he tried to summon Amara or God to tell them to send Dean back to the right timeline. Back to him._

_He’d wondered what Dean was going through. What Dean was making of a Cas who was his husband. A brother Sam who, according to Insufferable Dean, had gone to law school but had dropped out after two years, anyway, because he’d met Jess and she had been his sugar mommy and apparently no matter the timeline, Sam just wasn’t meant for school._

_If he had smiled bitterly then, Insufferable Dean hadn’t noticed._

 

 

 

_Cas. He had tried to find Cas, too._

_Summoned him whenever he’d tried summoning God._

_But every spell having to do with angels had failed._

_It would only occur to him months later that Cas might not be an angel anymore._

 

 

 

_“He doesn’t sound happy,” Insufferable Dean had said one night after dinner, after he’d already cried his quota amount and, like clockwork, had cited advice from one of his favourite subscription newsletters, the_ Meek Men’s Magazine _._

_“Who?” Sam had said._

_“Me. Your Dean.” Insufferable Dean had shifted in his seat. They were still at the dinner table. Sam had consoled him as he’d cried. If he didn’t, Dean would only cry louder. “I mean, he’s not married to Cas. Mom’s dead. You’re a_ really _clingy brother. Like…Sammy, your world’s so upside-down. The only good thing about this place that I’ve noticed, Sam, is this vintage bunker and your hair.”_

_“He hates my hair.”_

_Insufferable Dean had looked appalled._

_And then a misty look had appeared in his eyes._

_“See,” he’d said sadly. “I bet he’s having the time of his life now. I bet he doesn’t even want to come back.”_

_But Sam hadn’t believed that._

_So he had opened another book._

 

 

 

 

After the wendigo hunt, they drive for a long time in silence.

He asks Dean, again and again, if they’re going somewhere, if there’s direction, if Dean’s got an objective in his mind.

But Dean’s eyes seem glassy.

And he never says anything.

 

 

 

 

Sam starts to wonder if Dean’s remembered it all. If the memories of his life in the alternate dimension that Cas had taken away somehow returned, unbidden. If maybe Dean’s angry.

But that’s the thing.

If Dean remembered, he would be angry.

But Dean’s eyes are glass.

 

 

 

 

Dean finally talks.

 

 

 

 

“I wanna go to a bar,” he says.

Sam doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know what it means.

But he knows that Cas kissed Dean about an hour ago when he thought that Dean was on his deathbed and now Dean can’t seem to function.

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes later, “So go to a bar,” Sam says.

Dean nods. Jerks his head. A vague gesture.

“But I’m tired, man,” Sam continues, “and I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

Dean licks his lips.

Sam stares at him.

“I think that wendigo put my back out of business,” Sam says. “Drop me off at the motel?”

 

 

 

 

He’s a liar.

Sam’s a liar because as soon as he’s behind the motel door, he peeks out of the crack in the curtains and watches Dean head back to his car.

But Dean’s a liar, too.

Dean doesn’t head back to the car. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the motel room door. Then he stops. Then he starts talking to the sky.

But Sam knows what that means. So he opens the window quietly.

 

 

 

 

Another prayer.

“Dammit, Cas, answer me,” Dean says.

 

 

 

 

Dean brushes his fingers against his lips.

He closes his eyes.

“Why’d you kiss me?”

Dean’s prayer is a whisper. But Sam hears it all the same.

 

 

 

 

Dean comes back from the bar sober.

Sam’s asleep, for real, but when the lock clicks, his hunter’s senses activate and he jolts out of bed.

“Wanna hit the road?” Dean asks. “You got your four hours? Might as well head home.”

Sam glances at the clock. Three hours. Almost four since Cas smothered the wendigo and—did something else. It hasn’t been that long. It’s like they’ve barely finished this hunt.

But the road’s been getting lonely for Dean.

 

 

 

 

Sam’s blinking a lot. It happens when he’s dog-tired and trying to keep himself awake. He doesn’t know why he bothers—Dean’s driving—but something about Dean’s expression worries him enough that he tries to stay awake for the ride home.

“So, uh, h-h—” Sam yawns. “How was the bar?”

Dean shifts in his seat. Brings his hand up and touches his mouth. His lips. Swallows.

“Same old,” Dean finally grunts.

 

 

 

 

Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he pulls it out and checks the alert messages, it’s Cas.

Dean glances down at Sam’s lap.

Sees the CASTIEL flashing on the screen.

Maybe thinks about how many prayers he’s sent in the last couple of hours, all eavesdropped on by Sam. All unanswered.

Yet there’s a text from CASTIEL to Sam.

This time, Dean doesn’t bring his fingers up to his lips again. This time, his fingers tighten on the wheel and his jaw clenches.

This time, Dean’s voice is distant and strained as he says, “Cas wants to talk, huh?”

 

 

 

 

Sam doesn’t open the text.

Because Dean’s knuckles on the steering wheel are white.

But throughout the whole ride, Sam’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing

 

 

 

 

At the bunker, Dean seems a little careless, Sam thinks.

And the doors seem to shut faster.

 

 

 

 

CASTIEL: I kissed your brother sam

CASTIEL: I forgot i was an angel sam

CASTIEL: I thoUGHT DEAN WAS GOING TO DIE!!

CASTIEL: i was afraid he was going to be gone again so i kissed him sam

CASTIEL: He keeps praying to me but I am afraid to answr

CASTIEL: *answry

CASTIEL: **answer

CASTIEL: ***answer

CASTIEL: I don’t know what to say..

CASTIEL: He is better off without the memories of the alternate me…better off without the memories of the last few months where wé…….

CASTIEL: Always it sééms

CASTIEL: It is bétter that I am not someone he loves

CASTIEL: He is better off without me.

 

 

 

 

A moment.

Just one.

Sam takes one moment after he reads Cas’ distressed texts.

Then he prays to him.

Come here, he thinks.

This is my fault.

 

 

 

 

Cas doesn’t come. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text.

He just doesn’t come.

 

 

 

 

Sam leaves his room. He heads to the garage and snags a key—some car, any car—and he plans to drive to the apartment where Cas has been living. Where Cas has been curling up in bed, not sleeping because he’s an angel, but just lying there, waiting for Dean to call him for a case, like old times. Like now.

But when he makes his way to the garage, Dean’s there.

And Cas.

There’s the remnants of a spell on the concrete floor.

Scattered herbs.

Smudged chalk runes.

A summoning spell.

And a circle of burning holy oil around Cas.

Trapping him.

 

 

 

 

Dean takes a step forward. Cas takes a step back.

There's a pillar behind Cas.

Parking spot **13** painted on. 

Cas' back bumps into it. Dean steps across the holy oil. Traps himself with Cas. With a hurricane, Sam thinks.

But Cas doesn't do anything.

He just watches Dean approach him. Watches and the closer Dean comes, the harder Cas pants because he's breathing quick, as if he's forgotten that he's an angel. As if he thinks that he might actually need to breathe.

But Cas' breathing slows because Dean stops a few feet away and he doesn't move for a long while. Doesn't speak.

But then, eventually, Dean steps a bit closer.

And Cas' lips start to tremble.

And then Dean presses a thumb to Cas' cheek.

And “Don't tell Sam,” Dean says. "Don't tell Sam about what I'm going to do."


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t tell Sam about what I’m going to do,” Dean says, but Sam’s there, just a dozen feet away in the bunker’s parking garage where Dean’s got Cas trapped in a circle of burning holy oil and he’s got his thumb on Cas’ cheek and Cas is pressed against the wall, waiting with bated breath.

Don’t tell Sam.

So Sam wonders if he should leave.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

“What are you going to do?” Cas asks, and his eyes are focused on Dean’s face, but they flick away for the briefest second, meet Sam’s chest and Cas knows, Sam realizes. So maybe Sam should stay where he is. “These are drastic measures, Dean.”

Dean swallows. He drops his thumb from Cas’ cheek. Backs away and even though there’s room now, Cas stays with his back flush against the pillar.

“You’re…” Dean says and he curls his hands into fists at his sides. “You’re avoiding me, Cas.”

Do you remember what happened the last time you did that?

“And…” Dean’s lips work, try to compose words and Sam wonders if he’s trying to say his prayers aloud, the same questions that Sam’s heard him direct to Cas over and over again in the last half day since they ended their hunt.

Sam’s right.

Because finally “Why’d you kiss me?” Dean says.

 

 

 

 

Tell him.

Sam prays it to Cas.

Just tell him the truth.

But Cas’ eyes flick back to Sam’s face and they’re defiant.

 

 

 

 

Sam’s phone seems to burn a hole into his pocket. All of Cas’ texts. All of them like pleas, all of them as if Cas has been trying to convince himself that it’s better if he’s not in Dean’s life, if it’s a life where Dean wants to love him.

You’re wrong, Cas.

Tell him.

 

 

 

 

“It was an accident,” Cas says. “I didn’t mean to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Dean says.

“You were unwell, Dean. You didn’t see things the way that they happened.”

“Oh,” Dean says.

“My lips brushed yours by mistake. I’m sorry…if it caused you distress. I was only trying to heal your wounds. I know…you don’t desire me in that way.”

Oh.

Dean swallows again.

“And truth be told,” Cas continues, “I don’t desire you in that way either.”

I’m sorry.

He’s better off without me, Cas’ text had said.

 

 

 

 

Sam sees Dean try to take it in. Try to deny his feelings. Whatever feelings that he’s been stewing in for the last decade about Cas. Sam sees the way that Cas shatters Dean, the way Dean’s shoulders slump and the way that Dean tries to shake it off.

But Dean can’t shake it off.

 

 

 

 

The holy oil burns out.

Cas is free.

But neither of them move.

 

 

 

 

“What were you going to do?” Cas asks.

“Forget it,” Dean says.

He runs his hand over his mouth.

His lets his fingers brush over his lips.

 

 

 

 

SAM WINCHESTER: You made a mistake.

CASTIEL: No.

 

 

 

 

Years and years, Sam’s endured Dean’s pining.

But after Cas rejects him, in the days after what happened in the bunker’s garage, Dean’s pining intensifies.

Sometimes Sam forgets that Dean had his memories wiped. That he doesn’t remember his life with Insufferable Dean’s husband in the alternate timeline.

That’s how bad it is.

Dean becomes a shell of himself again.

And Cas won’t do anything about it.

 

 

 

 

He’s on some kind of path of self-destruction.

At least, that’s what Sam thinks of Dean’s behaviour.

They’re on another case, in another motel, and it’s been three months since Cas’ rejection, three months of Dean faking happiness.

And pining.

Three long months of pining.

“Think we should call Cas?” Dean says, and his fingers drum impatiently on the table in their motel. “We could use him around. With the hunt.”

What’s he trying to accomplish? Sam wonders.

But Sam gives in.

“Call him,” Sam says, tired, and he crawls into one of the beds and tries to go to sleep.

It’s hard being in the same room as Cas.

Especially when they’re hiding a secret.

 

 

 

 

He can’t lie. Not to himself. When Cas had rejected Dean, Sam had thought that naturally, Dean would pull away. Repress the hell out of everything.

But Dean’s desperate for self-destruction.

He keeps calling Cas to their cases. Keeps smiling like an old lover’s come home whenever Cas poofs in.

Keeps touching.

Keeps wanting what he can’t have.

But maybe Dean’s always done that.

 

 

 

 

It takes an hour. From the time when Dean first starts praying to when Cas teleports in (not that Cas is busy or anything but they have appearances to maintain).

Sam hears the thud of his footsteps when he walks, but he keeps his eyes shut and pretends to sleep.

“Sam’s napping,” Dean says, clears his throat awkwardly, like he’s been doing a lot, and Cas doesn’t say anything. Of course he knows. Sam’s pretending to sleep.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, after a long moment of silence passes.

Awkward.

Always awkward now.

Another moment of silence. Sam gives in and opens his eyes to watch them.

Cas is standing by the table by the window. Examining the piles of research papers. They’re looking for a new creature, one they’ve never encountered before and can’t figure out how to kill. Truth be told, they should’ve stayed at the bunker until they were prepared. Saved a few dollars instead of wasting them at the motel when they don’t have a clue about what to do next. But Dean had insisted. Dean had wanted to get going.

It’s easier for Dean to make excuses about needing Cas to help them when they’re running low on cash.

Cas squints at Sam’s scrawled notes (Dean hadn’t done anything except to mention every now and then that Cas might be an asset today).

“What is this beast? I’ve never seen it in all of Creation.”

Okay. That sets Sam’s nerd senses tingling. For a moment, Sam thinks of jumping out of bed to join them. Forget feigning sleep. But then Dean places a hand on Cas’ shoulder and Sam’s reminded of what he’s trying to avoid.

“Well, maybe the drawing’s wrong, Cas,” Dean says and he presses in closer, until his chest is flush with Cas’ back, and he puts his other hand on Cas’ other shoulder, too, holds Cas in place between the table and his own body. “Maybe it’s something you’ve seen before but you just don’t know it.” 

The muscles in Cas’ neck strain.

He starts shaking.

“Dean…”

 

 

 

 

Sam pretends to wake up.

Dean moves away from Cas.

Cas breathes out. Long and slow.

 

 

 

 

All three of them.

In that small motel room.

Outside, the night’s here. Inside, the air’s tense.

Dean’s smiling, painfully, unhappily.

“When you healed me,” he says, “after the wendigo. It all started coming back. Slowly.”

A second.

Dead silence.

Sam’s heart stops in his chest.

Dean’s face twists, bitter, but still smiling.

Betrayed.

“And now I remember everything,” he says.


	13. Chapter 13

_He had booked it._

_Hell, he hadn’t waited a damn minute before he had run out of his childhood home._

_“Dean!” Mary had called out after him, astonished, and damn it, Dean had wanted to turn back so hard, right back into his mom’s arms, but after he had heard his own strangled voice on Mary’s answering machine (“_ There was a woman here, mom. She said my time with you was up. She said she was gonna take me from you. She said to say good-bye _.”), Dean had known what had happened right away._

_Well, not exactly, but he’d known where to go to find out. A few hours later, after Dean had charmed himself onto several buses without money, he had arrived at the bunker, ready to research the crap out of this—ready to find a way back home._

_And maybe save his goddamn life if this was some creepy Djinn dream offshoot (to be honest, he hadn’t understood why Amara would try to kill him after all they’d been through—hadn’t they made amends?)_

_But then it hadn’t mattered._

_Because when he had arrived at the bunker, the bunker hadn’t been there._

_Instead, there had been a house._

_And the Impala parked in its driveway._

 

 

 

_He had gone in, of course. How couldn’t he have with Baby in the driveway, sitting out there so pretty? But maybe Dean had thought that he could have found the bunker through that door, anyway._

_He hadn’t._

_Instead, he had found designer furniture. Designer clothes hanging in the damn closets of the house. Trendy ass appliances that didn’t even exist in Dean’s real life. And magazines. Oh, boy, hundreds of magazines everywhere, with the most bizarre titles ever:_ The Prim and Proper Men, The Docile Househusband’s Guidebook, Tips and Tricks for Well-behaved Gentlemen Groomed for a Submissive Disposition _._

_What the fuck? Dean had said aloud to that last one._

_And then Dean had found the kitchen. A kitchen stocked with gourmet recipe books, hooks on the wall with fifteen different artsy aprons to choose from._

_And Cas._

_Cas standing in the kitchen. Cas, trench-coated and bewildered, clearly having been zapped by Amara here himself._

_Trusty, dependable Cas, always screwed halfway to hell like Dean._

_God, Dean had been so relieved._

_Until Cas had removed his trench coat to reveal a designer suit._

_Until Cas had looked at Dean with so much disappointment._

_Until Cas had started talking._

 

 

 

_“I know that we had a disagreement last night,” Cas had said. “I forbade you to redesign Sam’s living room—I know. I know that you find his paisley curtains to be abominations but he is your brother and he finds comfort in the way his living room is arranged. If there is anything of what years of observing humanity taught me—if there is any principle that I still adhere to even after falling from grace, it is that what gives one person a feeling of protection and comfort should not be taken away.” Cas had huffed with frustration. “I couldn’t do that to Sam. I will not let—I forbid you, Dean, so please don’t look at me like that. Nothing will make me change my mind.”_

_Cas had taken a few steps towards Dean, while Dean had stared at him speechless._

_“And now you’re giving me the silent treatment,” Cas had sighed, after Dean had struggled to speak. “Honestly, I did not expect this of you. The house is unclean. The evening meal uncooked. You were not even at the door to receive me on my return from work. This…this is unacceptable behaviour.”_

_Dean had spluttered. “W-what?”_

_Where the hell had Amara sent him? The freaking 1950s?_

_And what the hell had she done to Cas?_

_So Dean had backed away from Cas, had stumbled out of the kitchen, had almost tripped over a stack of copies of the_ Suppressing Your Natural Male Dominance In Order to Respect Your Husband _newsletter, and he had started to run for the door, had planned to take the Impala and drive off to—hell, he didn’t even know where he could go—maybe Crowley—sure, Crowley still had to be around right? Or Hell, for that matter, still had to be in business—he’d sell his soul…just get back to a place where Cas wasn’t Crazy Cas and then he’d figure it out, a way out of his soul deal—Sammy and he would…_

_But then Dean had frozen._

_Because as he had been trying to reach the front door, he had glimpsed a picture on the mantle of the fireplace._

_Cas. And him. Matching white suits. A wedding. Getting married._

_An eerie replica of a stupid dream Dean had had once in Purgatory._

You gave me what I needed most _, Amara had said._

I want to do the same for you _._

_So Dean had stood there, shaking, and then he had felt Cas draw close, had felt his warmth press up against him, for the first time in his goddamn life, something that he had craved for forever but had never dared have, and Cas had pressed his lips to Dean’s ears, had brushed a kiss there that had made Dean shiver, and had said, “Sweetheart, are you alright?”_

_Damn it, Dean had thought. Damn it._

_Amara had brought his dream to life._

 

 

 

 

Now, he remembers it.

So they stare.

 

 

 

 

They don’t know what to say to him.

They took his memories away and implanted new ones.

How are they going to explain it?

 

 

 

 

“Forget it,” Dean says and he feels his own mouth twist and he’s smiling (angrily—he knows), and suddenly, he doesn’t want an explanation and he doesn’t want to care.

Dean…

“Forget it,” he says again.

_I know why you did it_.

 

 

 

 

They continue the hunt.

When it ends, Cas leaves.

Sam sits guilty.

 

 

 

 

“Forget it,” he says, but Sam insists on talking.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” he says, as they drive back to the bunker. “But you were already hurting. I thought if you could forget that other dimension—that place with that other Cas—I thought—I just wanted you to be happy again.”

(But look where we are now).

 

 

 

 

At night when the bunker is warmer in Dean’s room than anywhere else, Dean calls him.

But he doesn’t come.

Dean goes to bed feeling empty.

God, Dean doesn’t even know why he’s trying.

 

 

 

 

But then Cas comes the next night.

 

 

 

 

He sits at the edge of Dean’s bed, back to him, face hidden from Dean’s eyes.

Dean’s half-asleep.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I’ve been a poor friend.”

 

 

 

 

“You’re not my friend,” Dean tells him.

 

 

 

 

Cas’ shoulders tense. Then his frame shakes. His voice breaks.

“I’m—I’m s-sorry,” he says.

“You’re not my friend,” Dean says again.

 

 

 

 

You’re more than that.

 

 

 

 

So how could you do this to me?

To _me_?

 

 

 

 

“Damn it, Cas, I love you,” Dean says, but he doesn’t say it. The words don’t leave his lips.

Not yet.

Cas is still sitting on the edge of the bed. Still curled up in on himself.

Dean wants to pull him closer.

When his fingers brush Cas’ back, Cas tenses.

“Stay here tonight,” Dean says. Cas says why?

Why not? Dean says.

“I’m not a good friend,” Cas says but Dean tells him, “You’re not my friend.”

 

 

 

 

Damn it, Cas.

Damn it.

Damn it.

 

 

 

 

I love you.

 

 

 

 

Cas raises his hands—old vessel hands, now his own—and he covers his face, but you can’t hide, angel. Those tiny fingers are nothing capable to your mighty form.

Dean tosses aside the blanket, crawls across the bed and presses his hands to Cas’ shoulders, one on each side. Slowly massages the muscles there while Cas keeps his face hidden.

 

 

 

 

I love you.

 

 

 

 

Cas says then, “Sam would never allow it,” and Dean’s confused and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Instead, Dean reaches for Cas’ hands, pries them away from his face, and Cas darts his head and what are you hiding from, angel? Dean asks.

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, presses his mouth right up against Cas’ ear, lets Cas feel the way his lips move against Cas’ skin, lets Cas imagine what hot breath and touch can do. “Come on.”

Where?

“Here,” Dean says, and nudges Cas into bed, takes him by the hands and gently leads the way.

“I think I’ve found the way,” Cas says.

 

 

 

 

“Damn it, Cas, I need you.”

 

 

 

 

Dean lies down on his back, and Cas hovers above him, unsure of where to go (but I’ve found a way, Cas insists) and Dean wants him, wants Cas pressing him down, wants his weight and wants to feel him everywhere.

“Damn it, Cas, I need you,” Dean mumbles, and he stretches his neck, leaves it bare and wants Cas to kiss him there, damn it, right now, but Cas is still hovering, and there’s something buzzing underneath his skin—Dean can almost feel the vibrations when he grasps Cas by the wrist and pulls him down.

 

 

 

 

“I’ll have to be a worse friend,” Cas says then, when Dean reaches to run his thumb along Cas’ cheek. “Sam…I think that he will hate me for it.”

Damn it, kiss me, Cas, Dean prays and he’s itching and itching and Cas’ lips twitch, and he’s heard, hasn’t he?

Dean rolls his hips, grabs Cas by the waist and pulls, as if he can bring him closer than closest, and Cas finally succumbs and he kisses Dean and somehow Cas presses closer, brings them closer than what Dean thought could be the closest, and Dean groans into his mouth as Cas pins him down.

 

 

 

 

“I’ll do it for you,” Cas says. “I will pay the price of Sam’s friendship but I will do it for you, Dean.”

“Do what, Cas?” Dean says but he’s too distracted by Cas’ jaw, too distracted by all the damn clothes that he’s wearing and he wishes, he goddamn wishes Cas wouldn’t call him by his name, not right now.

Cas’ eyes seem watery. He looks right at Dean. He blinks away tears.

Kiss me, Dean wants to say but instead he says, “What’s wrong?”

“Do you want me to—” Cas says and Dean says yes, damn it, yes.

“I can do it,” Cas says. I can send you back to the place that you crave.

I can send you back to that other me, Dean.

So Dean falters.

So Dean’s hands freeze where they’ve been resting. On Cas’ hips. On Cas’ half-undone belt.

Dean breathes. Short breaths. Shallow breaths.

“I know that you miss him,” Cas says. “I know that you love him.”

I know that you wish I was him, Dean.

 

 

 

 

Damn it. Damn it.

 

 

 

 

I know that you pretend that I’m him, Dean.

 

 

 

 

Damn it. Damn it.

 

 

 

 

“Erasing your memories was wrong,” Cas says.

Maybe Amara sent you where you belonged.

 

 

 

 

It’s quiet in the room.

Dean digs his fingers into Cas’ hips and holds him tight.

Dean closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

 

 

 

 

They pull apart and separate. Dean does Cas’ belt up nicely and sits in bed cross-legged. Cas looks at him and looks at him but Dean keeps his eyes lowered, and he swallows, and damn it, damn it.

When Dean finally breaks the silence, his voice is hoarse.

“I wanna sleep, Cas.”

Of course, Cas says and he gets up to leave.

Dean lets him.

 

 

 

 

There’s an hour. There’s two.

And he can’t last.

He throws aside his sheets and leaves his bed. Goes to Cas’ room and then remembers that it’s old—Cas doesn’t live here anymore.

He prays and then Cas is here.

 

 

 

 

Cas holds him so well. Dean’s curled up with his back to the angel’s chest and it doesn’t seem like he has to worry that Cas will leave him.

When Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, Dean shudders.

“I can take you back,” Cas says in soft whispers.

 

 

 

 

Do you want to go?

 

 

 

 

Dean says

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

yes.


	14. Chapter 14

_The worst thing about wherever Amara had sent him had been that he hadn’t known._

_Was it a different timeline? Was it made up completely, like Zachariah’s 2014? Or, possessing a power akin to God, had Amara transformed the world—leaving no way out?_

_Dean had had a sinking feeling that she had done exactly the latter._

_So he had played his role._

_He had pretended to be this strange place’s Dean._

 

 

 

_On the side, he’d researched. Driven up to libraries with books about the lore. He apparently had a job as a real estate agent, but he had quit the first day. Not that Crazy Cas knew—that was what Dean had decided to call him, the one in Amara’s freak dimension, ’cause he clearly wasn’t_ his _Cas. This Cas was domineering (well, uh, not that Dean’s Cas hadn’t been, but hey, at least he’d been gentle with Dean) and it seemed that the Dean of this dimension had also been a complete wack job, if all the humiliating magazine subscriptions were anything to go by._

Insufferable Me _, Dean had thought with irritation, as he’d cooked the evening meal the first day of his arrival, because that was what Crazy Cas had expected of him._

_The dinner that had followed had been awkward to say the least._

 

 

 

_Silence._

_A lot of it._

_The scrape of Cas’ fork. For god’s sake, they were eating burgers. The sound of Dean gobbling and slurping down his own because he was hungry._

_And Cas._

_Staring him down._

_“Whab,” Dean had said between bites._

_Cas had chewed his forkful before he’d said, “You’re acting strange, Dean.”_

_At that, Dean had stuffed the last-third of his burger down his throat to avoid answering._

_“I’m fung,” he had told Cas with a big grin. A piece of lettuce had fallen out of his mouth. “Heely, Cas. Nemer been beffer.”_

_Cas hadn’t looked impressed._

 

 

 

_If dinner had been awkward, bed time had been a hell of a lot worse._

_Dean had slipped into the bed that he’d found; it was a big house, on the plot of land that the the bunker had been, and there had been a lot of rooms. But he’d spotted a nice one, had seen a stack of magazines entitled,_ Building the Desirable Physique: A Body Worthy of a Trophy Husband _, so naturally, Dean had known that this was definitely Insufferable Him’s bedroom._

_Within five minutes of slipping into bed, his eyes closed while he planned his next moves to escape this Made-By-Amara-Hell, the bed had creaked. It had dipped. Then Dean had been manhandled._

_“What the—”_

_Cas._

_Arms all around him._

_Dean was the little spoon._

 

 

 

_After that, Dean didn’t know what had happened._

_But Cas had touched him. Cas’ warmth had enveloped him and he hadn’t wanted to move._

_Cas’ fingers, trailing down his arm. Cas’ lips, on his neck, soft gentle pecks, murmurs of love right up against his skin._

_“Damn it, Cas,” he’d said, voice gone hoarse, even if there had been no reason for it._

_What’s wrong? Cas had whispered, but Dean hadn’t said a word._

_He hadn’t been able to move._

 

 

 

_Was it wrong?_

_It was what Dean had wondered day in and out, as time had crept by, and his research for his escape had become half-hearted._

_Instead, he’d found himself looking forward to cooking Cas breakfast, lunch, whatever it was. He got a kick out of picking out Cas’ outfit for the day, something he did apparently. Soft, silky fabrics Dean had never known. Pretty clothes, Dean thought, not fit for hunters, even as he’d tugged them on himself._

_They still went hunting in this dimension. Dean had found that out when Cas had come home from his job one night (he was a manager at the local library) and had declared that a ghost in the nearby town was scaring kids on Halloween night. Easy salt and burn._

_So they’d gone to hunt the things that went bump in the night. A chilly and foggy evening, sun just setting, into a forest that had once housed an old cabin where some Puritans had interrogated witches in the late 1600s._

_Dean had been pretty damn eager. He’d been stuck here three weeks now and a hunt had seemed to be the closest to his old life that he could touch. So he’d grabbed his gun loaded with rock salt with maybe a little too much enthusiasm, and maybe he had jogged into the heart of the forest a little too fast, because Cas had come sprinting after him, had grabbed him by the arm and had said sternly, “Stay behind me at all times.”_

_I don’t want you to get hurt, Cas had said with a hand pressed to Dean’s cheek._

_Dean hadn’t known why he’d struggled to breathe then. His heart had squeezed, but in a different way than usual. Not painfully like it always did when he was with Cas—when Cas wanted to leave, off to go track a rogue angel or, hell, head back to work at the local Gas-N-Sip._

_So Dean had stayed behind, had trailed Cas while Cas had held his hand so damn tightly, and when the ghost had come, he had let Cas handle it._

_Had enjoyed the feeling of Cas protecting him._

_But I gotta find a way back home, Dean had thought. I want to go home._

_It had felt like a lie_.

 

 

 

 

“I’ll tell Sam,” Dean says. “I won’t let him blame you.”

Cas says nothing.

They’re pressed up together in bed. Cas’ fingers are still running through his hair. Dean’s still pining for another Cas.

 

 

 

 

But for now, he’ll take what he can get.

 

 

 

 

Cas says, May I tell you something, Dean?

Dean wonders why he's so selfish.


	15. Chapter 15

_It only took him six weeks._

 

 

 

_Pet names. Amara’s Cas had a penchant for them. Hey,_ sweetheart _, he’d say to Dean at breakfast. Thank you for tidying the house,_ darling _, and Dean would glow from the inside-out. It was ridiculous, really._ Baby _had been Dean’s favourite, for obvious reasons._ Honey _seemed to be Cas’._

_“You can call me Dean, Cas,” he’d say._

_“You know that is only reserved for when you are being insufferable, Dean.”_

_Hell, that must happen a lot, Dean had thought._

_One week he cracked and took a peek at Insufferable Him’s magazines. Nothing too outlandish. Not_ Kinky Secrets for the Secret Submissive _or anything. Just_ Dress To Impress Your Man _._

_Violet ties look good, the magazine informed him. Roll up your sleeves for some extra skin. It’ll drive your man crazy._

_What’s hidden is sexier._

 

 

 

_He lived for the nights._

_Safe in Cas’ arms. No goddamn leviathans, Darknesses, or bigger and badder monsters trying to end his life. Just the small ones that went bump in the night that Cas could take out for him in the blink of an eye._

_And Cas was always there. He never left._

 

 

 

_It only took him six weeks._

_It only took him six weeks to think:_

 

 

 

_I don’t want to leave._

_And I won’t._

 

 

 

 

_Five weeks later, he woke up at the bunker like a bad dream._

_“What did you do?” he said to Sam._

_Sam said, “I saved you.”_

 

 

 

 

“What do you mean?” Sam says and his voice is hard.

White knuckles. Dean sees them.

“Cas is sending me back.”

What do you mean? Sam says.

 

 

 

 

They fight. They tear the damn bunker apart with their screams.

“How can you—after everything?” Sam says. “What do you expect—there’s another _Dean_ there, Dean! How do you expect to just let everything fall into place? You. Don’t. Belong. There.”

“Cas’ll fix it,” Dean says. “Damn it, Cas said he could.”

Sam turns bewildered to Cas. Cas who’s been sitting in the kitchen quietly. Cas who’s staring at the floor without saying a damn word.

“What’re you gonna do, man?” Sam says to him. “Cas, are you going to erase their memories? You’re just going to bring freaking Insufferable Dean here and pretend he belongs? God, Cas—he’s freaking _insufferable_.”

When Cas finally talks, the room goes silent.

 

 

 

 

It was a divine gift, he says.

Harnessed from a goddess’ powers.

I see that now, Sam.

I see that we were supposed to let Dean go.

It was not chaos that was wrought when Amara granted this wish.

Chaos was wrought when we tried to go against her will.

It was a divine gift.

 

 

 

 

“Let’s summon Amara here, that freaking witch,” Sam had said. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

She’s gone, Cas says. She and God are gone to a place no one can follow.

(Now it’s time to send Dean there).

 

 

 

 

It takes a second. Maybe two.

Cas’ hand on his shoulder. A shudder.

And then they’re there.

Dean’s _back_.

 

 

 

 

Cas drops his hand.

Dean feels it slide down his arm, linger in its drop.

But then they’re standing there.

May I tell you something? Cas says.

Dean’s lips tremble. He doesn’t know why.

“Tell me,” he says.

 

 

 

 

I love you, Dean, he says.

 

 

 

 

Good-bye.


	16. Chapter 16

Cas leaves him in Amara’s world with a small good-bye and then it’s all like before.

The Cas in Amara’s world doesn’t notice anything amiss when Dean walks in through the front door. Dean acts accordingly. When Amara’s Cas says that Sam’s over for dinner (short hair, underweight, a bit of a sloppy dresser in this world), Dean pretends that he knew all along. He sets the table for Sam and his five sons. Sam’s toddler daughter, Amelia, hitches a ride on Dean’s waist while he throws together a pasta salad.

 

 

 

 

Laundry days are Sundays. On those days, Cas’ job at the library ends at six o’clock, just in time for dinner. But before he comes home, Dean does the laundry.

Separating dark colours. Arranging the clothes that need to be dry-cleaned in a separate pile (they have a lot, all those fine suits).

After he’s done the laundry, he opens up his recipe book and figures out what to make for dinner.

Two platefuls of lasagna later, Cas and he settle in for a home movie.

 

 

 

 

Monday, Dean heads out. The first time he’d been here, he had quit Insufferable Him’s real estate job. He’d been too busy trying to figure out a way to get home. But now he figures, if he doesn’t get his old job back, Cas’ll notice sooner or later.

When he makes it to the office, he finds out Insufferable Dean already managed to snatch up the job.

 

 

 

 

Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays.

Mundane days.

But he’s okay with that.

These days, Cas and he are busy with work. Cas is shelving books (or at least, that’s what Dean thinks) and Dean is busy selling houses.

“Look at that carpeting,” he says. “Cool, huh?”

He’s not as good as his job as Insufferable Him was.

 

 

 

 

Friday, they have dinner with Mary. Friday, they have dinner with the family.

“Wish Dad was alive,” Sam says.

Jess coos sympathetically.

“That shapeshifter really did Dad in,” Sam says.

 

 

 

 

Cas’ day off is Saturday. So is Dean’s.

(They planned it that way).

Saturdays, they start off the day with trying out a new position from the book.

“God, Cas,” Dean groans more often than not during those sessions, panting hard while Cas maneuvers. “How many goddamn positions are there? Some of them don’t seem that safe.”

Cas reaches for the book. He reads the title.

 _999 Yoga Positions to Get Your Zen_.

There’s something off about the title, Dean thinks.

But he quickly forgets that.

After their morning yoga, they head out in the Impala for a hunt. Dean’s eager to grab his machete (there’s a vampire loose), but when he does, Cas chides him.

“It’s too dangerous for you, honey,” Cas says. “Stay in the car.”

So Dean does. Cas comes back, still impeccable even with his bloody blade. When Cas gets into the car, Dean thrusts his cell phone into his face.

“Look, Cas,” Dean says. “Found us another case while you were hunting. It’s so twisted. Damn mystery. What do you say, we go check it out?”

“I don’t think so, Dean,” Cas says and starts up the Impala’s engine. Cas drives them home. “I think we can trust the other hunters to take care of it. I’ll call the network tonight.”

After the call, they slip into bed. Cas wraps his arm around Dean and gives him a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m glad that you didn’t pester Sam about his paisley curtains last night,” Cas says.

 

 

 

 

Laundry days are Sundays. On those days, Cas’ job at the library ends at six o’clock, just in time for dinner. But before he comes home, Dean does the laundry.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: implied suicide attempt in the the last three paragraphs of the flashback at the beginning of this chapter. Feel free to skip it if it's an uncomfortable topic for you. The rest of the story will read just fine without it.

_It had happened without warning._

_Castiel had had experience with being homeless; it had not been the first time—the act of having no place to call home, after Dean had died in the fight with Amara—but it had been the first time in a long time._

_So it hadn’t been any easier._

_Weeks after falling from grace, weeks after roaming the streets, unable to reconnect with Sam (he’s dead, Castiel had thought with bitterness and guilt, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead…)_

_Dean had been dead, too._

_Weeks and weeks after this, Castiel had at last curled up in the back of an alleyway. Clothes dirtied, unable to find employment because unlike last time, Dean had not been able to falsify the necessary papers for him to start a human life. So Castiel had collapsed with his back against an old building in a stupor—thirsty, hungry—always, always—and he’d considered a solution to his misery that had been haunting him for months._

_A man had found him a few hours later, when he had thought himself all but gone._

_But Castiel had not bled hard nor fast enough._

_Unbeknownst to him, far away in the bunker, Dean hadn’t bled hard nor fast enough either_.

 

 

 

 

 

Now, four months.

 

 

 

 

 

They know that he’s not their Dean. They know that it is not fair to him, having been lifted from his own life again by Castiel and brought here simply to satisfy _their_ Dean’s wishes to be where Amara had once sent him.

“I could erase all of his memories,” Castiel had said, when he had first brought Insufferable Dean back to their plane of existence. “And give him some of…Dean’s memories. I—I built his body back up in perdition…I could…emulate it. He could…be Dean.”

“No, no!” Sam had said. “God, no, Cas. He’s not—he’s not Dean. I—we’d know. We’d know.”

Insufferable Dean had lain on Dean’s old bed, unconscious. Castiel hadn’t wanted to explain when he had swapped him out. He hadn’t known what to say. He had never met this Dean, but from what he had heard from Sam, it was best to not meet him at all.

In the end, they had settled for the easiest solution. Castiel had erased Insufferable Dean’s most recent memories—of his return back to his own dimension after Sam had managed to undo Amara’s work. When Insufferable Dean had woken up, he had thought that he was still stuck in the wrong dimension (and he had been, after all), and he had believed that Sam was still trying to find a way to send him back.

Sam had dashed his hopes in one quick blow.

“There’s no way to send you back,” Sam had said to him, and Castiel had hovered nearby, invisible, so as not to startle this Dean. “You’re stuck here for the rest of your life.”

Insufferable Dean had cried.

“My husband—Cas—he needs me!” Dean had said.

Castiel’s heart had twisted painfully. He had made himself visible.

After three days of Castiel’s presence, Insufferable Dean had forgotten about his real husband. Instead, he had swiftly devoted himself to worshipping Castiel.

 

 

 

 

 

Now, it’s been four months.

 

 

 

 

 

Now Castiel’s heart still twists painfully from time to time.

But Sam seems fine.

“It gets better,” Sam had said three months ago when Castiel had confessed that he still missed Dean as much as the first day. “It was Dean’s decision. Maybe once upon a time, I would’ve tried to get him back anyway, but Cas—it was his decision.”

Castiel lives at the bunker these days. Insufferable Dean often insists that they get a place of their own away from Sam—“and his fabulous hair”—but Castiel does not budge on this matter.

Not that it is a matter that meets a lot of resistance.

Insufferable Dean seems to crave affirmation. He doesn’t act without Castiel’s approval.

“I’m thinking of going shopping today,” Insufferable Dean had said at dinner once. “Do you think I should go?”

Castiel hadn’t paid attention, busy playing with his salad. Insufferable Dean loved to cook and after many tears and pouting, Castiel had grudgingly given in to eating despite not needing to.

“That’s nice,” Sam had said and then had coughed pointedly, eventually kicking Castiel in the foot to get his attention.

“You can do whatever you wish,” Castiel had said.

Twenty-five minutes of dismayed sounds on Insufferable Dean’s side, accompanied by not so stealthy weeping, and Castiel had finally intoned, “You may go shopping, Dean.”

Sam had snickered. Castiel’s face had been morose.

But Insufferable Dean had beamed.  

 

 

 

 

 

When he lies in bed beside Insufferable Dean, he feels as if he has been unfaithful.

But he lies there with the knowledge that his Dean lies with another version of him, too.

So he does nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

The bunker is becoming cluttered. After six months, it would be a lie to say that it isn’t because Insufferable Dean has made it his home.

Dean, Castiel reminds himself. I should call him Dean.

But in his mind and in speaking with Sam, he can’t help but add on the insufferable part.

The library is cluttered not with open books but with magazines. Not that they are ever truly in disarray. Insufferable Dean is meticulous with his cleaning. He tidies the bunker on a daily basis, right from their torture dungeon to the lint on Castiel’s trench coat. He tries to persuade Sam to let him style his hair but Sam manages to keep it from his hands.

Their world doesn’t have the magazine subscriptions that Insufferable Dean had been so devout to, but he makes it up with many editions of various men and women’s fashion magazines and becomes an avid participant of television’s soap dramas.

He still loves Dr. Sexy.

At the very least.

Just like Dean.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam and Castiel organize a hunt, one that puzzles even Castiel’s ancient mind.  

Dean does the research with the same diligence that he does his cleaning and cooking and obeying of Castiel’s will. Stuck in a three-star hotel room (the compromise that Sam and Dean had made when Dean had thought motels were beneath them), it’s Dean who finally figures out how to kill the creature that’s been lurking in the woods eating left feet.

They head to the monster, Sam and Castiel armed with guns containing special bullets carved with runes. Sam drops Castiel and Dean off at the northern edge of the woods and then drives the Impala to the south side; they plan to approach the creature from opposite ends, hoping to catch it off-guard.

The place is quiet. Castiel moves forward just as silently.

“I’m scared, Cas,” Dean says. “I only know how to kill ghosts.”

Dean’s grip on Castiel’s coat is desperate. He’s attached himself to Castiel from behind, and he only moves forward because he has to whenever Castiel takes a step.

“You’ll be fine with me, Dean,” he murmurs. “Remember that I am an angel.”

And nothing is more truthful. When Castiel annihilates the monster in the woods and Dean watches him in awe, Castiel feels a rush that he hasn’t felt in ages.

Powerful. Uncontainable.

At night, he pulls Dean closer to him in bed than usual. He has slept with Dean since bringing him here. It had been the only thing that had prevented Dean from sobbing uncontrollably into the night when he first arrived, and Sam had thanked him endlessly because otherwise, Sam would have been forced to play the role of a comforting mother. But tonight, Castiel pulls Dean as close as he can, wrapping him in his arms and running a soothing hand over his forehead.  

Such a small heartbeat, Castiel thinks, compared to an angel’s own life force.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean says and his voice cracks with his emotion.

I’ll always protect you, Castiel vows.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam has started to watch Castiel with cautious eyes.

Castiel doesn’t know why.

It’s been eight months since Dean arrived.

 

 

 

 

 

Nine months and another hunt.

Demons have been raiding entire towns, possessing citizens and ordering them to massacre each other. Crowley says that a lesser demon has been trying to steal his throne and now a civil war has erupted.

Sam and Dean drive to the town but Castiel sees no reason to accompany them when he can fly there and be present in an instant. He smites every last one of them, relishing their screams with every surge of his grace, and when Sam and Dean arrive, the town is eerily quiet, the demons slaughtered. The empty vessels lie in the streets with their eyes burned out.

Dean runs up to him with a reverent expression and embraces him.

“You’re so strong, Cas,” he babbles. “I don’t think I could even take out a demon on my own but you took down so many!”

Sam stares him.

“We could’ve saved the vessels,” Sam says.

Where’s your humanity, Cas?

 

 

 

 

 

Ten months. Eleven months.

A Year.

Dean lies in his arms fast asleep while Castiel looks up at the ceiling.

And then there’s a whisper almost, from far away. A prayer from a realm not adjacent to theirs and for a moment, the words become clear.

 _Cas…Cas…I miss you…I love you…I miss you_.

The words twist Castiel’s heart and he jerks for a moment, looks down at Dean in his arms and tries to search for the source.

Dean yawns and awakens from the movements of Castiel’s body.

“Dreamt ’bout you,” Dean slurs in his sleepiness. “You were glowing, Cas…all your grace…so strong, so invincible…”

Somewhere in the distance, the prayer comes again, stronger and more desperate, and Castiel now knows exactly from where.

But Castiel's mind wanders and he forgets it.

Inside he smiles at the human in his arms.

“Tell me how powerful I was,” he says.


	18. Chapter 18

_After he had tried to end his life, the next time that he had awoken, Castiel had thought himself to be in heaven._

_But he had been mistaken._

_Hospital._

_“You okay, buddy?” a voice had spoken._

_Dean._

_But not Dean._

_It had just been a man. The man who had found him dying. The man who Castiel had resented in that moment more than anything._

_“What’s your name?” the man had asked._

_Steve._

_“Where’s your family?” the man had asked._

_Dead._

_“Do you have a home?”_

_No._

_“Do you need a place to stay?”_

_I have no money._

_“I could help with that.”_

_The man had given Castiel a job._

 

 

 

 

Castiel ignores it for forty-two days.

The prayers from the other dimension are endless.

_I need you. I need you. I need you. I need you_ …

He made his choice, Castiel thinks.

 

 

 

 

“Sammy’s trying to get me to learn how to exorcise demons,” Dean tells him over dinner. They’re eating alone. Sam never seems to be around Castiel much these days. “He says it’s important for me to learn how to be self-sufficient, ya know? In case you’re not around to save me like usual.”

“I will always protect you,” Castiel says but inside his body, his grace thrums furiously.

 

 

 

 

Why do you try to undermine me?

It’s what he demands of Sam when he finds him. Sam is in the library as usual, on his laptop where the Wi-Fi never seems to fail, but he gets to his feet when Castiel storms into the room.

“What are you talking about?” Sam says but he’s tense and doesn’t look even a bit confused, as if he’s been waiting for this—as if he _knows_ that what he’s been doing has been wrong.

“Teaching Dean hunting techniques,” Castiel hisses. “I can protect him, Sam. He doesn’t need to go through the torment of a hunter’s life anymore.”

“Oh, is _that_ what it really is?” Sam asks. “Is that all there is to it, Cas? I’ve—I’ve freaking noticed it, you know? You’re—Cas, you’re not the same, man. You’re—on some sort of power trip. Don’t you think Insufferable Dean ought to know how to handle himself? What if—a sigil could blow you away at any time! Who’ll protect Dean then?”

Me, Cas says.

Me.

Where did your humanity go? Sam says.

 

 

 

 

_I need you. I need you. I need you. I need you_ …

 

 

 

 

A week later, Sam banishes him with a sigil. When he tries to go back, he finds the bunker warded against him.

 

 

 

 

_I need you. I love you. I miss you. I need you. Cas. Cas. Cas_ …

 

 

 

 

He goes against his better judgement.

 

 

 

 

It’s quiet in Amara’s dream world. Only the sound of Dean’s desperate prayers add any sense of commotion. But when Castiel appears in the house where the bunker is supposed to be, Dean isn’t speaking either.

More than a year since Castiel’s last seen him. Dean has a little more grey in his hair. Wrinkles that have become more pronounced, so different from Insufferable Dean’s skin whose body has not known stress and pain and heartbreak but only the soothing creams and masks that he spends his evenings using on himself and a disgruntled Castiel. Dean, Castiel thinks. The Dean that Castiel had pulled from hell could be twenty years older.

But he isn’t.

He’s not praying, Castiel realizes. The words that have seemed like desperate screams into the night for the past few months were never consciously uttered. It’s longing. Dean’s longing that Castiel has learned to decipher—longing that he has many times translated into meaning, into words.

Dean sits there in the living room, late at night with only a lamp by his side, and he’s longing for Castiel without even being aware of it.

 

 

 

 

Castiel learns soon that Dean sits like this every night. He sees Dean go to bed with his other version—the fallen librarian angel—and then when that facsimile is asleep, Dean slips out of bed and sits here and his longing for Castiel intensifies.

But Castiel has remained invisible. Castiel has not dared to reveal himself.

 

 

 

 

The seventh day that Castiel observes Dean, it is a laundry day.

The seventh day after that, Dean does laundry, too.

And so forth and so forth and so forth.

For a month, Castiel stays in Amara’s dream land and for a month, he watches Dean perform the same senseless tasks at the same time on the same day.

But the fifth week, Dean breaks the pattern.

Instead of folding his facsimile’s clothing neatly and then placing it on a shelf, Dean only folds it midway before he upturns the laundry basket and he’s angry—so, so angry.

“Damn it, what did I do?” Dean whispers to the empty room.

A strange feeling washes over Castiel when he hears Dean’s voice crack.

He doesn’t like it so he flies away.

 

 

 

 

The bunker is still warded against him.

 

 

 

 

“He won’t let me out of the house, Cas!” Insufferable Dean cries hysterically over the phone. “He says you’re dangerous!”

 

 

 

 

_CasCasCasCasCasCas…Cas…Cas…_

 

 

 

 

Castiel is pulled to Dean as if on a leash held by Dean’s own hand.

He goes back and he watches him every night.

In his other ear, he hears Insufferable Dean’s feeble cries.

 

 

 

 

One night, Castiel doesn’t know what comes over him.

He reveals himself.

Dean is sitting in the same armchair, staring at the lamp beside him as the bulb burns holes into his pupils. It only takes Castiel a moment—but he does it.

With the barest twitch of grace, Castiel’s familiar trench coat morphs and he wears what his facsimile wears to bed every night.

He opens his mouth. Adjusts his tongue so that when he says Dean’s name, it will come out in the same sharp authoritative tone as the Cas of Amara’s world likes to speak in, likes to _command_ Dean in.

But...

Castiel falters.

He’s unable to speak.

Just as Dean turns his head as if he’s sensed himself being watched, Castiel fades into the invisible plane again.

But Dean stares right at him as if he can see him.

 

 

 

 

_Cas?_

 

 

 

 

Castiel stays silent.

 

 

 

 

_Cas—are…are you there?_

 

 

 

 

Castiel stays silent.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s longing intensifies.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, before librarian Castiel leaves for his work, Castiel watches Dean do something out of the ordinary.

This morning, instead of getting up and making librarian Castiel's breakfast, Castiel watches Dean pull his other self into bed.

Dean says, "I need you, Cas, please," and he tears at his facsimile's clothing, watches Dean press his other self into the mattress and kiss him fervently, desperately.

Castiel feels something foul curl in his stomach but he can't seem to look away.

"I have work, honey," the facsimile says.

"Forget work," Dean says.

"I can't, darling," the facsimile says.

"Call me Dean," Dean says.

 

 

 

 

Librarian Castiel slips away while Dean sits desperate and still needy in bed.

Castiel doesn't know what comes over him but he steps forward then and presses his hand to the side of Dean's face.

Dean jolts as if shocked. His hand touches his own cheek, fingers moving through Castiel's invisible presence, fingers moving through Castiel's form made of his grace _—_ they both shudder.

This time, Dean says his name aloud.

This time, he calls out to Castiel openly.

"Cas?" he says.

 

 

 

 

Castiel wants...wants so very much...wants to answer but he still can't seem to make his mouth move, still can't seem to reveal himself.

But for the longest time, he stands there with his hand on Dean's cheek, his thumb stroking the rough skin of Dean's face, and he wishes that so many things had never happened.

He wants to touch Dean.

So he goes to the place that he knows.


	19. Chapter 19

_There had been a woman._

_In the loud club that Castiel had worked at as a bartender after his own defeated attempt on his life, there had been a woman._

_Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. She sat up at the bar counter, watching Castiel polish glasses, pour drinks, doing whatever he did whenever he did it._ Think she likes you, buddy _, Khalid had whispered into his ear so often, his voice growling deep, sometimes so much like Dean’s that Castiel would shiver and have to press a hand to his stomach because every time he’d remembered that Dean was dead, there would be a terrible feeling there, as if he were sick._

_Why did you save me? Castiel often wanted to say, perhaps angrily, at the man whispering in his ear, but whenever Castiel got a self-pitying look on his face, Khalid would reprimand him._

_“I saved your life in that alley, buddy,” he’d say. “I didn’t sit up in that hospital with you and offer you this job for nothing.”_

_So Castiel had bit his tongue._

_And he had kept working._

_The woman would come every Friday._

_Alone._

_She was popular with men but picky. She’d dance sometimes and Castiel would watch her. Reciprocity. She watched him. He watched her._

_But they had never talked._

_At least not until the day that she’d sat in her usual spot turning every man who approached her down. It was Castiel’s last day on the job. He was going to switch to working in a garden center. Loud club music did not lend to his ears as well as the holy songs that he had often heard in Heaven._

_“I’m sad to see you go,” Khalid had said that night and Castiel had said a quiet thank you, Khalid._

_For five minutes after that, it had been the usual routine._

_Quiet. The woman rejecting the men that came to her. Castiel mixing drinks with vulgar names._

_And then Khalid had left to deal with an incident in the far end of the club and she’d taken that opportunity to speak to him._

_“You’re leaving?” she had said._

_For a moment, he had been unsure if she had been addressing him but she had looked up from her drink, starting to wait with expectation, so Castiel had taken this as a social cue._

_“Ye—yes.”_

_“Are you married?” she’d asked._

_Only by mistake, Castiel had wanted to say, but that would have led to uncomfortable questions, and answers that no one would believe so, “No,” Castiel had said and right away she had asked when he got off work._

_An hour later, he’d sat in her car beside her (I don’t have one, Castiel had admitted and she’d snorted, Hippie for the environment?)_

_The car had been a police cruiser._

_And then Castiel had started to have doubts about it all. Had he misinterpreted her advances as sexual in nature? Was he just in trouble (Castiel had many a time been stopped in the past for ‘suspicious behaviour’ and had never told Sam or Dean for fear of being ridiculed and berated)?_

_“Did I do something wrong?”_

_“Oh, no—I’m off-duty.” She had looked sheepish. “You’re…legal.”_

_An awkward silence had followed. Castiel had looked down at his lap._

_“I mean,” the woman had babbled, “you’re way older than eighteen for sure so it’s not that I mean you’re_ legal-legal _, you know? I mean…no criminal activities so um, good work…human.”_

_“Thank…you.”_

_And another awkward silence. Castiel had become very uncomfortable, had started to lament to himself that he had no sexual prowess and had wished sorely that he could have called Dean in that moment to ask for help._

_But Dean had been dead._

_“You want to, um,” the woman had said and she had started leaning in, and Castiel’s silence must have been loudly assertive for she’d darted in then and had kissed the side of his mouth, had started to kiss him and he had let himself go lax, and had let himself be commanded._

_She’d pulled back._

_“You’re a terrible kisser,” she’d said._

_Castiel had sat there and had felt strange and numb._

_“I’m sorry,” and he had started to reach for the door handle, humiliated, but she had pressed her hand on his shoulder._

_“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “Um, are you okay? You seem…to be going through something.”_

_Had his grief been so evident on his face?_

_“Bad break-up?” she’d asked. When Castiel had just stared out the passenger window into the night, she’d made a sympathetic sound and then had sat back in her seat and for the next hour, had recounted every failed relationship she’d ever had._

_Sixteen names. Sixteen men that she’d had failed relationships with until she had given up and had started showing up at the bar, and then the men that she’d spent her time with hadn’t been worth remembering the names of._

_“I always wanted to settle down, you know?” she’d said, “and I thought I would but then this year I hit forty and just…”_

_(How old are you? she’d asked him, abruptly, and Millennia, Castiel had answered and she had said, God, right? Living feels like that. It wears you down)._

_“And now it’s too late for me,” she’d said. “I’m stuck. Every time I had it good, I just…let it drift away.”_

_(Suddenly, You know that feeling, she’d asked? Like you’ve loved someone a lifetime and never got to say anything? And it’s such a waste?)_

_They’d driven to a drive-thru. She’d ordered him his dinner and had gotten more than enough chicken nuggets and ice cream to last them many more nights like this._

_“None of the men I’ve ever dated wanted to settle down,” she’d said miserably between bites of an interesting ice cream dessert that Castiel wished that he could have asked Dean about. “Worst thing is I knew that and still went along with it, you know? Just wanted an apple pie life…”_

_And then they’d driven back to the drive-thru because she had suddenly wanted pie._

_(You like pie? she’d asked but then she’d muttered to herself, Of course, he does—everybody likes pie)._

_The parking lot had been vacant throughout the night and around three-thirty in the morning, Castiel’s eyes had started to droop as she had continued to chatter. When he had nodded off, she had jerked him awake and he had uttered a quick apology and then she had continued to recount the last twenty or so years of her life._

_“There was this one guy, though,” she’d said. “He really wanted the apple-pie life, you know? Like really, really wanted. But I didn’t want to then. I was too young at the time.” She’d sighed. “Dean. Dean Winchester. The one that I’ve regretted forever. The one that got away.”_

_Castiel had jolted in his seat._

_And suddenly he had been awake._

_“He was a little weird though,” she’d said. “Thought he was completely looney at first and then…well, sometimes things happen that make you believe…in_ other _things, you know?”_

_(Wonder where he is now, Cassie had said. Wonder if I’d have a chance or if he already found the great love of his life…)_

_Castiel’s eyes had burned and then his eyesight had blurred and he had a felt a pang of pain in his stomach._

_“He did not find anyone,” Castiel had said._

_You knew him?_

_“I was just his brother.”_

 

 

 

 

Now, Castiel remembers that same bitter feeling from the car.

“You let down the wards,” he says.

Sam shifts uneasily on his feet. The bunker kitchen is cold. “Haven’t seen you in months, Cas.”

So there was no need for wards.

“I’ve been with Dean.”

“How?” Sam says and he’s vexed. He thinks that Castiel means the other one.

“Our Dean,” Castiel says and he closes his eyes and pain shoots through him. “I’ve been to see our Dean, Sam.”

 

 

 

 

Sam’s voice is soft, afraid. It cracks when he speaks.

“H-how is he?”

 

 

 

 

Castiel doesn’t know what the right answer is.

He only knows that he fled when he wanted to touch _him_.

But Castiel opens his mouth, anyway, and he doesn’t know what he’s about to say but it doesn’t matter then because suddenly there’s a sharp pain in his head, somewhere deep inside his mind, and it’s _his_ voice.

 _CAS!_  

Castiel shakes violently.

 

 

 

 

“Cas?” Sam says and maybe Sam is wondering if it was a mistake to lock out the angel for so long.

“Where…where’s Dean?” Castiel pants.

 

 

 

 

Castiel doesn’t know—no, Castiel _does_ know—that it is irrational to think that these feelings that have stirred within him again will go away if he sees that artificial version of Dean—that all his yearning to touch him will dissipate when he lays eyes on that familiar insufferable face.

But it doesn’t work.

While Insufferable Dean clings to him in their joyous reunion, Castiel feels cold.

“I’m a fully seasoned hunter now,” Insufferable Dean babbles. “That must be why Sam locked me up in the dungeon!”

 

 

 

 

Something’s broken.

 

 

 

 

Something’s broken.

And Castiel can feel it inside himself and now he’s stumbling through the bunker hallway, dazed, lost, and in pain.

The pain in his head is shearing.

 

 

 

 

_CAS!_

 

 

 

 

One breath. Another. He closes his eyes and when he can see again, he finds himself in Amara’s world, and he doesn’t know how he got here, but he’s uncloaked, visible to everyone, visible to the only other person in the room.

Visible to Dean standing there, in the shadows of Castiel’s doppelganger’s house.

Dean looks at him, takes in his trench coat and familiar tie. Takes him in for the first time in two years.

They stand in the quiet, looking at each other, not saying a word.

Neither of them know who will break the silence first.

But Castiel thinks that it won’t break at all.

Whatever happens here will be permanent.


	20. Chapter 20

The silences stretches out; it has a wide reach.

It fills everything.

And still neither of them speak.

 

 

 

 

Castiel moves, the urge to run away, and he does. Slowly. Slowly he leaves that room, that same place where he’s seen Dean sit every evening in idleness, the place where he’s spied on Dean without guilt (and he thought without feeling) and he’s making his way down the hall, as if he even really knows this place, this fake, fake place created and resting maybe in Amara’s mind, this place that is not his.

Halfway down that hallway, he stops.

It’s night time now and there’s not a light on inside the house; the only place that can be seen is that other room.

But in the darkness, Dean’s come up behind him and Castiel feels Dean’s fingers brush his back cautiously until they drop away.

Castiel doesn’t turn.

 

 

 

 

Still they don’t speak.

 

 

 

 

Castiel wonders where he is.

 

 

 

 

Did you call me, Dean?

Did you pray to me?

But still they don’t speak.

 

 

 

 

Dean’s hand makes its way back to Castiel’s skin, grazing lightly against his neck before that hand forms a stronger grip on his shoulder.

Dean turns him around.

But in the dark they can’t see anything.

Castiel’s angel eyes no longer work.

 

 

 

 

Suddenly there’s rough brutal energy, in Dean who’s been so docile in this strange, twisted world, and Castiel lets himself sink into the wall as Dean pins him against it, as if Castiel’s angel strength has failed him altogether, as if Dean has put the humanity back into him.

But they both fall through it, that wall, and then they’re gone from that world and back in their own and the wall that Castiel finds himself against is hard cold bunker cement.

They’re in Dean’s room.

 

 

 

 

None of Insufferable Dean’s things are here.

It’s like he never breathed.

Or maybe it is because of Dean.

 

 

 

 

Something changes in Dean's heart. What he needs, Amara no longer has.

So maybe it is Dean whose mind melts her world.

And then

they

are

here.

 

 

 

 

For a moment, Dean eases away and Castiel’s released from the trap of the wall and Dean’s body and Dean steps away, shaking, and he looks at Castiel.

 

 

 

 

I never prayed to you, maybe he’d say.

But somehow I called to you anyway.

 

 

 

 

Cas, Dean mouths.

It’s been a long time since Castiel’s seen that movement on Dean’s mouth, the way his lips twist.

But it doesn’t take him even a second to know what Dean wants to say aloud.

 

 

 

 

“Dean,” Castiel says and his voice sounds as if it hasn’t been used in the last two years.

 

 

 

 

Dean surges forward again, wild, wild energy and Castiel gasps when he’s pushed back into the wall, the breath knocked out of him.

Dean still pushes forward insistently, as if they can slide right through this wall, too, but this world isn't melting (why would it now when?) and the wall stays firm and only more of them touch and press together as Dean takes a hold of his chin and kisses him.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps between every breath and it just fuels Dean onward.

 

 

 

 

Soon they break apart, completely, and Dean’s taking steps back again and there’s a space, between them, and there are words caught in Dean’s throat.

Dean makes his lips work, makes them form the words that don’t seem to want to leave.

( _I love you,_  he says).

And whatever’s happened here, Castiel thinks, is

Permanent.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it! Thank you very much for reading and of course, comments and kudos are always appreciated if you've got the time. Other than that, if you'd like, you can visit me on Tumblr [here](http://60r3d0m.tumblr.com) :)


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